


Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Knight - Kingsman Advent 2018

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kingsman Advent Calendar 2018, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 42,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: A fic per day for Christmas, centered around Kingsman, Statesman, and the Sons of Liberty. Chosen randomly via prompt generator and filled before Christmas ends. Varying lengths, content, and pairings. Not all pairings may be in the tags.





	1. Day One - Mittens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gifts are...difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day One Prompt: Mittens

**Kingsman Estate, England - December 13 th, 1994**

“Oh! Percival, have you a moment?” Martin slowed his purposeful stride through Central, turning to catch sight of Morgana hurrying up behind him. She smiled at him, even as he inclined his head to her.

“Yes,” he said. “Though I haven’t been injured recently, and my physical was three months ago.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she said, waving a hand. “Walk with me to my office?”

He considered it for a moment, then nodded, slowing his stride to match hers. They made their way past Merlin’s offices and towards the infirmary, and as they walked, she seemed on the verge of saying something. However, she kept her peace until they reached their destination.

“I have something for you, you see,” she said, unlocking the infirmary doors and preceding him inside to her office. She rummaged around in her cabinets until she emerged with a small wrapped box, topped with a ribbon.

He stared at the box as she thrust it into his hands. “What is this?”

“A Christmas gift, silly,” she said, cocking her head at him. “I tried to get you something practical.”

He simply stared at the tastefully wrapped box. It was wrapped in gold paper with a green ribbon, and he didn’t turn it over in his hands, nor did he move to open it, as though afraid it might bite him.

“You don’t have to open it now, of course,” she said. “But I wanted to get you something. I usually do for Knights who have no close family left. But as you’re so young, Christmas can be a lonely time.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” he blurted.

“You don’t?” She blinked. “Lord have mercy, did I misread your file? Are you Jewish, I’m—”

“No,” he said. “I just…don’t.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “You don’t have to accept it, if you don’t want it, of course. I just thought—”

His hands tightened on the box. He knew that Galahad, at the least, would chide him for hurting Morgana’s feelings. Not to mention Lancelot. He gave a shake of his head.

“Thank you,” he said, holding it awkwardly, as though he were still unsure as to whether it contained a bomb or not. “I…”

“It’s all right, Martin,” she said, giving him a smile. “I won’t do it again if it makes you uncomfortable.”

There was that strange tinge to her smile, as though she were disappointed but she didn’t want him to see. He’d seen it before, when he didn’t respond the way a person expected. Frustration ghosted across his features, and Martin frowned down at the box, turning to go.

She made no move to stop him.

* * *

**Kingsman Estate, Scotland - December 24 th, 2018**

Snow blanketed most of the countryside, painting it white until it reached the dark, cold waters of the loch. It was still falling, big fat flakes that made Lucy glad that she was inside and by the fire. The library was quiet, yet festive – it seemed that James and Roxanne had been by with their tinsel and other decorations earlier in the day. Curled up on one of the comfortable leather couches, tea beside her hand and a book in her lap, the resident physician of Kingsman was totally and firmly off-duty.

Well, save for wellness checks on their two recovering patients. Merlin and Percival were more than stable, however, and it was more of a courtesy at this moment than a necessity to check on them. James and Roxanne hovered around Martin, and Harry had Merlin’s continued well-being firmly in hand. They had all earned their rest, and while Kingsman licked its wounds, the Sons of Liberty and Statesman were taking up the slack, keeping an eye on the world during the holiday.

She’d just gotten off the phone with Champagne and Adams, in fact, wishing them a Merry Christmas.

Strange how when one lived long enough, one saw old acquaintances far more often – at least in this business. Mina looked well, and Beau looked besotted. She smiled to herself, watching the snow fall.

All was as it should be, and Lucy Sheffield allowed weariness to creep into her bones, just this once. It had been so long since she’d had a moment to just…breathe. Moving the entire operation to Scotland had left them with very little time to settle their personal grief. The holidays would have been harder without these distractions. For now, however, there were new recruits appearing each day, selected slowly by their handful of remaining Knights, Merlin, and Arthur.

Soon, it would be back to business as usual. Now was the time for respite before continuing her work.

“Morgana.” There was a voice from the door, and she turned, seeing Martin in his wheelchair. “May I join you?”

Surprised to see him out of bed this late, but knowing that the confines of the bed frustrated him, she nodded, cautious for any signs of weariness. Knights could be terrible patients, but none were so terrible as Harry Hart and his protégé, Martin Gainsborough. Never before had she met two men who had so much to do that being injured was the worst sort of impedance on their very egos.

Martin had opted for the motorized wheelchair, and Lucy wondered if that was because he was weary or because she might fuss if she found him attempting to propel himself _again_ with the manual one while his shoulder healed. Either way, she was satisfied that he was looking after himself as the wheelchair whispered across the rug to stop beside the sofa where she sat.

“I…have something for you, you see,” he began, his voice still rough from its time on the ventilator. He was healing, and perhaps would be for quite a long time, but it was a welcome change from mourning all her Knights. She turned her head to regard him, and found him holding out a package to her in his right hand.

It was large enough to hold on her lap, wrapped in a colorful printed paper decorated with snowmen and tied with a white ribbon. He looked almost…nervous as she held the package.

“I had to get it wrapped,” he muttered. “I’d have preferred to do it myself—”

“It’s lovely,” she said, knowing his penchant for fussing if things weren’t just so. (She remembered his singsong mutter of _Christmas is ruined_ the first time Roxanne had spent it with her uncles.) “May I open it?”

“Of course,” he said, as though that were the point.

She slit the side of the wrapping paper with her fingers, sliding off the ribbon and the paper and pushing them to the side. There was a plain white box beneath, and she lifted the lid, only to gasp.

A soft knitted shawl lay in her lap, a pearlescent grey with delicate details among the crafted piece. It looked warm and soft, the material angora wool. She ran her fingers over it, stroking it.

“It didn’t come out perfect,” he said. She glanced at him. “I can’t quite get the needles to…do what I wanted them to. I was too…weary many days to work on it much.”

“You made this, Martin?” she asked. He nodded, cutting his eyes away in the shy way he had when he didn’t want anyone to fuss over him.

“It’s not much but—”

She was already rising, adjusting the shawl over her shoulders. One end was a little shorter than the others, and the ends might have turned out a little lumpy, but it was simply something that gave the garment character, in her opinion.

“It’s lovely, my boy,” she declared. He went pink, falling silent as he looked up at her. She bent, pressing her lips to his forehead. “Thank you.”

He squirmed a little, grunting in pain as the movement aggravated his shoulder.

“Have you taken anything?” she asked him.

“No,” he said softly. “I wanted…I wanted to be clear headed when I gave this to you.”

“You should,” she said, fishing in her pocket for the painkillers she kept for both him and Merlin when either tried to push themselves too hard. He held up his good hand, shaking his head.

“In a moment. I just wanted to…share that with you. Please?”

She peered at him, his dark eyes pleading with her to understand as he sat uneasily in his chair. After a moment, she blew out an unhappy breath, but she understood. Clarity was important for Martin. Painkillers had never been his first choice, considering a whole dose could render him incoherent and a half-dose was likely to put him right to sleep. She relented, patting his cheek gently.

“For a while,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied. They fell silent, and she returned to her seat, the shawl still around her shoulders.

“I never thanked you properly,” he said after a while of watching the flames of the fire in companionable silence.

“For what?”

“That first Christmas gift,” he said. “The gloves were warm. I still wear them. Roxy packed them when we left for James’s…right before Poppy. I still have them.”

She smiled. “It wasn’t about the gloves.”

“I know, now,” he said. “But…I never got to thank you.”

“You’re here,” she said. “That’s the thanks I want, and all I need.”

“Happy Christmas, mum,” he said. She glanced at him, noting the way his eyes were drifting shut and how weary he sounded.

“Happy Christmas, darling.” She reached out, smoothing his hair back before she tapped out a message to James on her spectacles. “You should rest now.”

“Mm,” he mumbled, already drifting.

She sat with him until James came to collect him, pressing a kiss to James’s cheek as well, before resuming her vigil by the fire. Now, however, the cold was banished completely, warmed beneath a knitted shawl of pearlescent grey wool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Constant Readers!
> 
> I've been trying to write more now that my days off have returned to me. I'm finding it a little more difficult than I thought, but I have returned! Sort of.
> 
> Yesterday (11/30/18) we had a 7.2 magnitude earthquake rock Anchorage. RIP my free time. But no worries. I have some done in advance and I will endeavor to finish the rest so that I can complete this by December 25th. I am in good health, I haven't lost power or other utilities, and I still have a roof over my head. I appreciate your patience with any delays.
> 
> Meanwhile, if you enjoy this, you should know that [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802074) has published one at the same time and we're writing in the same universe, as usual. If you like this you should check them out - and don't forget to leave a comment with your kudos. We hope you like them!


	2. Day Two - Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey hasn't checked in. Ginger goes to find him. Lee gets dragged along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 Prompt: Gingerbread

**Statesman HQ, Kentucky - December 2012**

Decembers were hard at Statesman.

Ginger Ale reflected on that, tapping away at her keyboard, a steaming cup of coffee close to hand as she worked out the next phase of her prototype lasso. The energy output was still problematic, not able to safely direct the amount of electricity the handle was pumping through it. It was setting fire to the rope in the testing phase, so she was scrapping it and looking at raw materials to try again.

It was hardly the time for snow, she thought, peering out the window and taking a sip of her coffee. Even without the snow, it was hardly the time for the wet and unforgiving Kentucky winter. It was chilly, with fog wreathing the compound in icy fingers that trailed the ankles and made the day dark, but it would be the end of the month before they saw real snow.

Sometimes she wished that the whole winter was the pristine whiteness of the Swiss Alps, the last time she’d been out for training, but she was grateful for the mildness of the season, most days.

She was distracted. Her clipboard chiming at her made her jump, and she scooped it off the desk. She frowned, scrolling through the alert.

Whiskey hadn’t checked in again.

Statesman had a system that was fairly fool-proof. Available agents would check in once through their various means, either by phone call, button press, or even text message and it would mark them as available. When on medical leave, or otherwise engaged on missions, the system was suspended for the agent in question. If they missed a check, it would put them on Ginger Ale’s watch list, and she would call them if they missed a second day. The idea was that Ginger had a complete list of available agents at all times, for whatever reason, and she could make a selection for a mission based on skill sets.

This was Whiskey’s second day. She sighed and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, then took a long sip of her coffee. It was best to get this over with, like pulling off a band-aid, so she dialed into Statesman’s secure lines and brought up the face-time option. She could say she’d laid eyes on Jack and that would be the end of things.

The line dialed out, and rang.

And rang.

She didn’t let up, getting his voice mail once and hanging up to immediately redial.

The second time, he picked up on the first ring. There was no camera access; he’d blocked it. But she could hear his voice, rusty and grouchy on the other end.

“ _No._ ” With that, he disconnected the call. She sighed again.

“Looks like it’s time for a field trip.” She dialed out another number. “I need an escort.”

* * *

**Statesman Outpost Snifter, December 2012**

Lee had to admit, Texas was ideal for Christmas. While it wasn’t as cold as Kentucky, the air of festivity around the Dallas-Fort Worth area left him humming a carol tunelessly under his breath as he turned onto the outpost’s side road. About a hundred miles out northwest of the suburban sprawl, the compound was hidden in plain sight as a Statesman distribution warehouse. It was attached to a rather large ranch for agent use that was divested from the warehouse with acreage and fencing, but the windows were dark as Tequila and Ginger Ale pulled around to the front of the house.

“Likely holed up inside, you figure?” he asked.

She gave a wordless noise, a sound of censure that made him itch; it was never a good idea to annoy Ginger, yet Whiskey somehow took pride in all the times he’d managed to wiggle under her skin.

“We’ll check the ranch first, then the agent quarters underground,” she said. She slid from the truck’s cab and shut the door firmly behind her, stalking towards the house.

“Jack, you are a _dumb_ sum’bitch,” he muttered, sliding out of the driver’s seat to follow her.

The house was empty, perhaps too large and open for Whiskey’s liking. The heat was off, which meant he hadn’t even opened up the house for casual use. That left underground, and he trailed Ginger Ale to the barn, where she pulled aside the tarp hanging in front of the entrance. Disguised as a storage room, the door could shift and reveal a secondary elevator that would take someone with clearance down to the lower levels.

She scanned her palm and then her retina, and the door hissed open. Tequila parked the truck behind the barn to discourage visitors, and then joined her.

“Likely in his quarters,” she muttered. “Should have supplies—”

He wisely chose not to ask, instead following her to the elevator and downstairs to the underground complex.

The benefit of being based in America was that there was plenty of land to be had for development, and the first Champagne had done plenty of purchasing. When Statesman had expanded, they set several outposts on the west coast and southwest, leaving space for their sister organization to expand northwest. Expanding in the digital age meant going down, burrowing beneath radar and other sorts of exposure.

Now Tequila and Ginger Ale sank below, several floors, past spare medical units and ancillary staff laboratories. Most of research and development worked in Kentucky, but there were several projects out here that Whiskey was ostensibly supposed to be supporting with his presence.

That was apparently not the case as they arrived at the staff quarters. Agent quarters were roomier, more comfortable than the medical ones, often having multiple rooms and acting as apartments. Ginger paced down the hallway, past the keypads that shone red—no agent was logged in, the red meant a vacancy. However, there was a keypad at the end of the hall that was green. Even if Whiskey weren’t home, it would show he’d tapped the room for his use.

Ginger punched in her override code without any ado, and the doors slid open. Tequila sucked his teeth. Whiskey must have really pissed her off if she wasn’t knocking first. She marched in, and he slunk behind her, uncomfortable with breaching Jack’s space this way.

Upon immediate inspection, the tasteful modern apartment was empty. There was no sign of their missing agent as Ginger brought up the lights from a muted glow to a level more comfortable for them to see by. Lee moved into the apartment with her, hands empty but at the ready.

Jack Daniels was most kindly described as ‘prickly’. He was grumpy at best, downright ornery at worst, and it was likely there was a shouting match in the near future. The apartment, for lack of a better word, reeked of alcohol. Someone had holed up here and hadn’t stopped drinking since, Lee reckoned. His nose wrinkled as he took in the stack of beer bottles and the half-done whiskey bottle on the modern coffee table. A quick scan of the common area with no Jack left only the bathroom and the bedroom.

Lee reached forward and grabbed Ginger by the shoulder. Her indignant reprimand was cut short by his finger against his lips.

“I’ll take this,” he said, his voice low. “He’ll likely come up swinging if he’s still drunk, and I’d rather he try to hit me than you, ma’am.” He adjusted his hat and stalked forward, around Ginger and into the dim confines of the bedroom.

Jack lay on the bed, stretched across it like it was an afterthought. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his jeans and boots were still on. He was snoring, a wheezy, almost pathetic sound. Tequila sucked his teeth again, moving to Jack’s side. There was barely any recognition from Jack as Tequila shifted him, pulling his boots off and waving Ginger off as he started to get him more comfortable.

Jack was out, in a way that meant it was for the best that he was safe in Statesman’s care. Lee hadn’t been this level of black out drunk in a while. Even for someone like himself, who took recreational drug use to the razor’s edge of decorum, this was pushing it. Jack was supposed to be on duty. This wasn’t right.

Once Ginger was out of the room, Lee stripped Jack to his shorts and tucked him beneath the sheets; the bed didn’t even really look slept in. Jack hadn’t showered for days, and Lee wrinkled his nose again as he tossed the clothes in the laundry. He set a glass of water beside the bed, then dug out some painkillers for what would likely be a monster of a headache come consciousness.

Jack’s snoring only changed when he rolled to his side, burying his face in his pillow. Lee shook his head, setting a bucket beside the bed, just in case.

As he exited the bedroom, Ginger looked up from where she’d been putting the empty bottles in the recycling chute. He shook his head, and she frowned, putting the last of the load into the chute.

“That tears it,” she said. “We’re spending the weekend here. I’ll call Champ and let him know.”

Lee sighed.

* * *

The smell of gingerbread brought Jack around. For a long moment as he woke, it was almost like he was back home, in Montana, with—

But his stomach rebelling at the smell of food definitely reminded him of where and who he was, right at that moment. Agent Whiskey emptied the contents of his stomach, making it to the bathroom just in time. Wearily, he looked at his toiletries, summoning some sort of effort when he brushed his teeth. Mostly just to get the taste out of his mouth. He made his way slowly to the common area of his quarters.

Ginger Ale was sitting on the couch, working on something on her tablet. Jack blinked, bleary and confused. A clatter made him lift his eyes to the open kitchen, where Tequila was pulling a tray of gingerbread cookies from the oven.

“Wha—”

“You missed three check-ins,” she said, without preamble. “According to Statesman policy, I must lay eyes on an agent that misses two checks, in order to determine their readiness for missions.”

Jack scowled, his head pounding. “Well, you laid eyes on me.”

“Mm, that seems to be the case,” she said, flicking her eyes at him. He glanced down, realizing that he was clad in nothing but his skivvies. “Go get a shower.”

“Last I checked, you weren’t Champagne.”

“No, I’m not, but in this, he’s given me jurisdiction—or would you like me to bring him up on video with you in this state?”

He couldn’t disagree with her. Champ was a stickler for at least being able to hold your alcohol, and agents who went on benders would likely not be treated kindly. He turned on his heel and eased himself into the bedroom again, the smell of cookies following him.

A hot shower washed some of the nausea away, and he took his time, hoping they’d both be gone by the time he was out. There was something to be said for both of them being here, but all Jack could summon right now were expletives. Several feelings welled up in him at their presence, but the asshole in him mashed a lot of them deep down, where he couldn’t examine them too closely.

When he finally exited the shower, the bathroom resembled a steam-box.

He took the painkillers and sipped on the water while he shuffled around, getting dressed. Dressed was a pair of jeans while he dried his hair, and that would be good enough for him. Ginger Ale could deal with it if it offended her. She was the one who hadn’t knocked.

He felt much more human as he left the bedroom a second time, and both Lee and Ginger were sitting on the couch. He took the chair opposite, still ruffling his hair with the towel.

“This can’t happen again,” Ginger said.

He grunted.

“I mean it, Jack.” He cut a glare at her, only to find she wasn’t looking at him, but down at her knuckles. Her clipboard was nowhere to be found, and there was a strange sort of…vulnerability that cut through the air. “I can’t keep this from Champ. This could ruin your career.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to keep it from Champ,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“It’s personal.” Jack shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Seems to me we’d make a go of it, if you’d actually talk to us,” Lee said.

Jack frowned, opening his mouth, then closing it.

“Christmas is the worst,” he said, instead.

“It can be,” Ginger allowed. “If you want, we can stay.”

“If I want?” he squinted at her.

“We can’t stop you from drinking. Only you can stop that. But…we can be here, and if you decide you want to take it easy because we’re here, then, so be it. I’m not going to force you into a program, but this _is_ an intervention. You’re barely functional.”

He sighed, the anger replaced by exhaustion and nausea. “If I ask you to stay, not that I’m askin’, are you sleepin’ here?”

“We can be right next door,” she said. “Or we can stay here.”

“…next door will be fine.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “All right. I’ve removed what alcohol there was. I can’t stop you from getting more, but I can tell you I will be disappointed if I see more.”

“I can’t guarantee I won’t disappoint,” he mumbled. “But if this is what it takes to get you off my back—”

“It is.”

“Then fine.” He inhaled. “This week is the worst. It gets…easier.”

“All right,” Lee said. “I’m putting on a movie, and the cookies should be cool. You want one?”

“Maybe later,” Jack said, with a grimace. He rose. “Are you staying here?”

“For now,” Ginger replied. “Are you going back to bed?”

“Think I might,” he admitted.

“We’ll be here.”

Something about the phrase settled Jack as he wandered back into the bedroom and stripped down for sleep. It was enough to quiet the demons in his head, at least for now. The sounds of something appropriate for the season floated through the door, and Jack found himself drifting, feeling more settled than he had. He drifted off to the smell of cookies and the sound of a quiet movie in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day two down. I'm actually going to run the advent calendar until the 31st, as bearfeathers reminded me that the 26th is Martin's birthday and it seems a shame to just stop right before. Just consider it an extra bit. :D
> 
> Please remember to hit the subscribe button so you can see my updates when they post. If you like it, please consider leaving a comment. Kudos are wonderful, but it feels a bit like talking to oneself without any feedback whatsoever. Thanks for reading!


	3. Day Three - Wreath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey has a hard time staying away. Adams understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Three Prompt: Wreath

**Sons of Liberty HQ, Boston – December 1996**

Diani Price stopped short, the box of decorations in her hand jingling. “What are you doing here?”

She hadn’t heard of anyone scheduled for a specialty book binding or a research project, especially not this late in the holiday season. The Sons were booked up until early March. This man didn’t look like he read a lot as it was, with unkempt sandy hair starting to grey at the temples, an honest to god cowboy hat resting on the chair he must have been occupying before she arrived.

He turned from where he was standing at the window, a glass of bourbon in his hand. “What’s it look like? Waitin’ on an appointment.”

“We don’t have any appointments today,” Diani sniffed. “Our entire list has been serviced or rescheduled at customer request.”

“Oh, this is a private appointment,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Not something that you would have handled.”

She could feel herself go red in the face, anger creeping up her neck and shoulders like one of the biblical plagues, and she inhaled. At the last moment, she exhaled, remembering her position. As Revere, it was her duty to make sure every customer felt welcome, and also to keep them from the back rooms where a majority of the entrances to the underground tunnels were located.

She was an agent of the Sons of Liberty, and she would make sure that even though she had been appointed a few months ago, she would still be the one who was the face of the Company. She and the myriad of agents that worked with her would toe that Company line.

And then that bastard had the nerve to smirk at her.

“Run along, now,” he said. “I’m sure you got other things to do.”

Somewhere in there, Diani forgot her manners.

“Listen here, you rootin’ tootin’ son of a bitch—” She took a step forward, tossing the box down on the table with an audible jingle.

“Diani, that’s enough.” Diani whirled, catching sight of Adams in the doorway. Philomena Fox was an imposing woman, despite her size, radiating a calm sense of authority as she stepped into the room. Dark brown hair that was slowly going the color of iron cascaded down to her shoulders, and she wore her dove grey suit like a mantle of her station. “It’s all right. I’ll handle this.”

“But—”

“The day I can’t handle Beauregard Hickock is the day they put me in the cold ground,” she said.

“Aw, Mina,” the man, apparently Beauregard, said.

“And _you_ ,” she said, turning her eyes onto the taller man with a stern look and stepping past her protégé into the room. “Why is it every time I find you talking to a woman, she’s yelling at you?”

Diani made herself scarce, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Beau’s eyes crinkled at the corners as soon as the door closed. “It’s good to see you, darlin’.”

Mina’s face softened, the edges of a smile hovering around the corner of her mouth. “Why are you here and antagonizing my Revere, Whiskey?”

Beau made an effort to look wounded, stepping toward the box that Mina’s girl had tossed down right before she attempted to take his head off. He rummaged through it, knowing that he was really looking for an answer to her question. It was a breach of the agreement they’d struck so long ago, that neither would interfere with the other’s work, and he knew it, but—

“I came to congratulate you,” he said, pulling a large Christmas wreath from the box and holding it up between them so that he was peering at her through the hole in the plastic greenery. “On your promotion.”

“That’s not like you,” she said, putting a hand on her hip and watching him fumble. He sighed, putting the wreath back where he’d found it. “I thought Champagne was stepping down?”

“Tilly will quit when she’s dead, you know that,” Beau said. The nervous energy that had been coursing through him was only now getting an outward outlet, now that it was just him and Mina in the room, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “And it ain’t about that.”

“Then what’s this about?” she asked, stepping forward. She always did have the tendency to cut straight to the heart of things, making it hard for him to meander to the point as was his preference.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It felt like I should. Say goodbye, you know?” He shrugged. “We were dynamite in the field, and I know that this means you’re no longer part of that…life. Not that part, anyway. Sittin’ behind a big desk and callin’ the shots now—and I’m happy for you, I am.”

“Beau,” she said.

He stopped rambling, realizing that she was much closer than she used to be, reaching up to put a hand against his cheek. He regretted opening his fat mouth, now. This had never been a part of their arrangement, these feelings. Wanting more should never have entered the equation and now here he was, making a fool of himself.

“Do you want to say goodbye?” she asked, giving him a serious look.

“Never,” he said.

“Then why say it?” she asked.

“Because you’re moving on to better things, and I don’t want to stand in the way of that,” he said. “And I know that I would, given half the chance, because I always was bullheaded about you getting yourself into danger.”

“Then this promotion should be a relief for you,” she said. “No more danger. Sitting behind a desk and calling the shots, remember?”

“I know, I just…” He blew out a sigh, and she smiled. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest, and he settled, somewhat, with her to ground him.

“Remember Monte Carlo?” she asked.

“How could I forget?” he replied. “That little red number was gonna be the death of me.”

“Flatterer,” she said, tweaking his side. “No, do you remember the conversation we had then? On the terrace at the hotel? There was no reason for us to change, and there’s no reason now. I might not be able to meet you in the field anymore, but that doesn’t stop you coming to me, as you’ve figured out very well. So if you don’t feel tied down—”

“Never,” he breathed.

“Then there’s no problem,” she said. “So, stop tormenting my agents and just come to see me.”

“I have permission?” he asked, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up.

“You do.” She leaned back to look up at him. “Now stop pouting and help me decorate this office, since you chased away my assistant.”

“Can do,” he said, sketching her a lazy salute. But before he did, he leaned down, tipping her chin up so that he could catch her mouth with his, the kiss soft and sweet and chaste. He pulled back, watching her lashes flutter open before he grinned at her.

He still had it. He still had her. That seemed to be all the Christmas gift he needed.

“So,” he said, the innuendo clear in his raised eyebrows and carefully schooled innocent expression. “Where do you want me?”

She tweaked his side again and gestured for him to bring her the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial thought with this one is that Mina was elevated to Adams first. The conversation and 'Tilly' ended up being a sort of thing that floated through my head more than once, and I have the vaguest idea of Champ's predecessor, but that's for another time, perhaps.
> 
> Diani is very young here, probably about Harry's age when he became Galahad. I'll never not love the parallels bearfeathers and I draw between the two of them.
> 
> As usual, if you liked the story, please feel free to leave a comment! They really brighten my day.


	4. Day Four - Bows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin comes home late during the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day Four: Bows

**London, England - December 2002**

Martin was exhausted.

Cairo was messy, and he was done for the next two weeks. He’d stopped by the estate to let Morgana fuss over him, but even she was gentler than normal when she saw his sleepless state. He had been gone for more than three months, and snow was a welcome respite from the sun and sand that had turned cold and forbidding the longer he’d stayed there.

He made his way up his steps, listening to the cab pull away. He’d dismissed it on principle; he wasn’t going to need its services, and there was no point in letting Chester King spy on him any more than he already was. For now, he rubbed at his face and fumbled his keys from his pocket, his irritation at his lack of dexterity fading as he heard the click of nails on tile just on the other side of the door.

Madeline must have been dropped off some time ago, perhaps when he’d landed. He’d texted ahead so that the walker would bring her by, and paid their fees already, so his dog would be home when he got there. She must have heard him pull up, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Good girl. He opened his door, using his fob to undo his security measures, and took a knee by the door.

“Hello,” he murmured as she whined and pressed herself against him. He gave her a good, full-body scratch, and her tail went a mile a minute as she butted her head against his neck. “I missed you, too. We should have a nap, and then we’ll see about getting our routine back in order, hmm?”

Madeline seemed to agree, turning circles as he rose and removed his coat, the border collie seeming eager to herd him upstairs and into bed. He removed his shoes as well, the dampness of the snow meaning he would need to leave them on the downstairs shoe rack to dry. He padded in his stocking feet up the stairs, shedding his equipment as he went. His umbrella was left in the holder downstairs, his holsters removed and slung over his shoulder to be put away in his closet. He would see to the cleaning and care of his weapons as soon as he got some actual rest, and his feet seemed to feel heavier the closer he got to his bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Madeline also seemed eager to get to bed, all but pushing at the back of his calves before running ahead a few steps and then turning around to double back. She danced at the door, her feet tapping on the plush carpet, her tail wagging so hard it took her rear end with it.

He pushed open the door, the light from the hallway illuminating a body in his bed. Martin blinked. There shouldn’t be anyone in the house, no one had clearance besides…

Tanned skin was on display, stretched out on top of the duvet. Martin reached up and flicked his lights on, revealing James Spencer, naked as the day he was born saved a large red velvet ribbon tied in a bow across his nethers. Martin blinked again, far too tired to process what was going on. There were rose petals scattered across the bed, and James had a whole rose in his hand as he grinned up at Martin, propped up on his elbow.

“Welcome home, darling,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “I thought you’d like your Christmas present earl—”

His words were lost in his shrill screech as Madeline, realizing he was there, launched herself at her third favorite person besides Merlin and Martin. There was a thud as James flailed and lost his balance on the bed, rolling off and onto the floor on the other side out of sight. Madeline chuffed, thinking this was a fabulous game, her rear wiggling harder now as she stood on the bed, looking down at her conquest.

Martin let out a small sigh through his nose, turned off the light, closed the door, and went to make up the guest bedroom. He’d sort it in the morning.

* * *

**London, England - December 2003**

James was exhausted.

That prick had the gall to send him all the way to Mumbai on short notice during the holidays. What a crock. There was something to be said for keeping his mouth shut, perhaps, but then James had never really been one for following the wise course of action. Perhaps he could have been more agreeable, but Chester King had a tendency to dig under one’s skin when he wasn’t trying to actually do the right thing.

It was a fault he and Harry shared. Perhaps that made it all right.

He dragged himself up his townhome steps. Clancy was with Mummy; likely he wouldn’t see his bulldog until three days from now, after numerous phone calls and entreaties. Unlike his sister, James hadn’t blessed Mummy with a bouncing baby, which meant she got…strange with his dog during the holidays. James couldn’t really find fault with her, though. Clancy ate up the attention, and Mummy treated him like a king. It was just…it felt like projection.

Well, nothing for it now. He unlocked his door and disabled the security, kicking off his shoes and tossing his coat over the hook on the door. He’d see to them later, but right now he wanted a nap and then a hot shower, in that order.

His bedroom door was cracked. He hadn’t left it open when he left, and he’d sent the cleaning crew notice that he wouldn’t need their services whilst he was gone. He unsnapped the holster for his Tokarev, drawing the weapon and releasing the safety. He crept down the hallway, keeping his finger off the trigger.

The light was on as well, indicating habitation. James eased the door open, tucking himself behind the reinforced door jamb, only to relax when he realized it was Martin. His partner was asleep on the bed, tucked beneath the covers, his chest bare save for a hard-back book that he must have been reading before he dozed off.

Had he been waiting on him? They hadn’t taken the step of co-habitation, and it was rare that Martin spent the night; their mutual workplace frowned upon attachment at all, not to even mention their current situation. But it seemed as though he’d been missed. James crossed the room and moved to sit on the side of the bed closest to Martin.

The dip of the bed beside him and James’s hand on his cheek seemed to rouse him, and Martin shifted. The book fell away and James noticed that Martin was wearing what looked like a choker of green velvet ribbon, tied into a bow at the side of his neck. Martin’s eyes fluttered open, pawing at his glasses that had gone askew.

“James?” he mumbled.

James pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Yes. What’s all this?”

“Wanted to return the favor. You tried to give me a Christmas gift last year…” The last was lost in a voluminous yawn that meant that Martin hadn’t been sleeping well either since he’d been gone. James felt the weariness in his bones and decided that like all good things, unwrapping could wait.

Gently, he pulled the ribbon free, setting it on the bedside table and tucking Martin back in. He undressed, pulling on his own sleeping clothes, and climbed into bed beside his partner. Martin turned and James accepted the position of little spoon, letting Martin wrap his arms around him and nose into his neck.

“Happy Christmas,” Martin mumbled.

“The happiest,” James replied.

He could hear Martin’s breaths evening out into sleep, and he soon followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are, kicking off the main OTPs with a little Percilot. I hope you're enjoying so far, and there will be more come tomorrow. Still working on getting this sorted out. I will attempt to post one fic a day, but it depends on how many I can get written into my back log on my days off.
> 
> As always, if you liked it, please leave a comment. There has been a slight change, as I've said; there will be a total of thirty one ficlets, all the way up until New Years' Eve.


	5. Day Five - Coal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Christmas after his mentor's death is the most difficult for Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Five Prompt: Coal

**Kingsman Estate, England - December 1996**

Morgana had just finished up her end of quarter reports, filing them away to be delivered at the beginning of the new year. She sighed, rubbing at her forehead.

This year was going to be difficult. It was not quite Christmas, but she could definitely say that she was not feeling the spirit this year. The bright and fragrant greenery draped about her office earlier in the month seemed to be in poor taste now, in the wake of things. She’d managed to talk herself back into work with the reminder to Chester that she hadn’t finished these reports and that the Knight’s Council would be interested to know why his expenditure reports weren’t on time. It was her only saving grace, allowing her to bury herself in work to quell the grief that churned in her chest.

Thomas Brampton had passed less than a week ago, and all who knew him were taking it hard.

Merlin was juggling both work and Harry, who’d also been granted a leave of absence. Harry had taken it harder than most, almost catatonic before Merlin had been able to rouse him and get him home. She worried for him, because this was traumatic in a way that perhaps Harry hadn’t ever encountered. She knew his own relationship with his father was absent at best. Wes had taken it better, having Garima to focus on. They were all stretched thin emotionally this time of year as it was, and now Thomas’s passing was enough to cause that frayed thread to snap.

Her eyes felt too large for her skull, hot and dry with tears that had long since stopped falling. She’d wept at his bedside, wept while she’d struggled to keep him breathing, wept in the thin morning hours before dawn before she’d called to make arrangements. There were no more tears; she felt as though they’d been forcibly wrung from her as though one would squeeze a wash cloth, leaving her limp and bedraggled.

She took a long drink from the bottle of water she kept nearby and rose to put away the last of her filing.

“How could you?”

She startled and turned, taking in the sight of Harry Hart, slouched in her doorway. He hadn’t shaved in days, the fine stubble of his beard turning to a proper growth, his hair a curly tangle without its usual pomade. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his clothing looked slept in.

This was not a Kingsman. This was a grieving man attempting to make sense of his world.

“What do you mean, Harry?” she asked. He fixed her with a look, squinting as though trying to keep her in focus.

“You’re…here. And working. Like you don’t care at all.” His words were drawn out, the syllables soft in such a way that she could hear the slur in his voice. “You don’t, you don’t care. What about him?”

“Harry—”

“No, don’t, don’t Harry me,” he said, swaying in the doorway. “None of you seem to—to care. You’re all back at work.”

“The world doesn’t stop turning,” she said softly.

She could see the pain etch its way across his face as the words left her lips.

“It should,” Harry spat. “Was that your thought when you finally let him go? ‘Oh, the world doesn’t stop turning.’”

“Harry, that’s unfair,” she said, feeling her lip tremble at the accusation. He stepped forward, drawing himself up and tall, towering over her. “You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” he said. “Because at least I care. We put him in the ground a week ago, Lucy. Did you even care about him at all?”

“More than you know,” she said. She was weary, but even then, she felt her temper flare, like it had when she’d confronted Chester King. “There won’t ever be another.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Harry said. He squinted around himself at the office. “Still decorated for Christmas.”

“Was I supposed to drape the tree in mourning black, Harry?” she spat. “You know that’s not how we do things.”

“Bugger how we do things,” Harry replied. “There should have at least been some sign—”

“There shouldn’t have been any connection, any relationship, at all!” she cried. “Would you behave the same, if Merlin were to—”

“Don’t—” He hissed the word, as though she could speak that terrible fate into existence simply by voicing it. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“Why not, Harry?” she pressed. There was no reason to incite him, but his words had flayed her to the bone and she’d had enough of that for a good long while. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, after all.”

Harry lurched forward, only to be jerked back as Tristan hauled him backwards. “That’s enough, Galahad.”

He wrapped his arms around Harry and lifted slightly, making it difficult for the drunken Knight to get purchase on the floor.

“Sorry about the delay, Morgana,” he murmured as Harry struggled. “Was on the fourth floor.”

Lucy released the button she held in her pocket, a panic button Merlin had given her almost six months back. Meant to ward off Chester King by always having one of her core group of boys with her, she never would have anticipated having to use it on one of her most ardent guardians. Now, though, Harry’s anger was directed elsewhere as Wes dragged him towards the elevators.

She breathed out a quiet sigh, the racing of her heart slowing as her communicator in her spectacles chirped. Right after her panic button, she expected it.

“Hello, Merlin,” she said, tapping the stems of her eyeglasses.

“Everything okay down there, Morgana?” he asked, appearing in the mirror she faced so she could speak to him.

“Harry…well,” she hesitated. “Wes had to come and get him. He’s in a bad way.”

“He’s left his home,” Merlin grunted, sucking air through his teeth. “I’ll go and handle it.”

“You won’t be able to get away today,” she reminded him. “End of quarter reports.”

“Damn,” Merlin muttered, cutting his eyes to the side as if to judge who was watching.

“Wes has him,” she said. “He’s taking him outside to cool off. He’d been drinking.”

“Damn,” Merlin muttered again. He inhaled. “All right, I’ll keep an eye on Tristan.”

* * *

Harry was much slower than anticipated, which told Tristan exactly how much the Knight had had to drink before descending into the bowels of the estate to confront Morgana. While not totally sluggish, there was an air of confusion to Harry that was not at all like Wes’s usual experience when sparring with Galahad.

The most eerie thing was how Harry struggled near silently, soft grunts and the occasional outrush of air as they grappled in the hallway. Perhaps it was still something of his usual decorum reining in the noise, keeping this within the limits of people who would understand it, but either way it was unsettling as Wes manhandled Harry into the elevator that led toward Morgana’s cottage on the estate grounds.

The elevator opened out onto a stable beside the cottage, large enough for a horse and the inner workings of the elevator that led down to medical. Wes half-carried, half-dragged Galahad out and into the pristine white powder that carpeted the estate. There, he finally released his iron grip on Harry’s shirt and braces, pushing him away.

Harry stumbled, but didn’t fall, righting himself ankle deep in the snow and brushing himself off.

“It’s over and done with, Galahad,” Wes said. “I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”

“Don’t you have children’s toys to go purchase?” Harry spat. He might be sobering up, but it was hard to tell with all the venom in his voice. “Perhaps you should keep yourself to yourself and go back to playing father.”

Wes bristled. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re going to die doing this job,” Harry said, gesturing at the estate, barely visible in the distance between the trees. “But you have a daughter to think about, don’t you? A bloody kid. I’d have thrown you out on principle.”

“You’re drunk,” Wes said.

“And so what if I am?” Harry said. “At least I’m not leaving anyone behind when I go.”

Guilt flashed through Wes, thinking of his daughter at home with Kalpana, trimming the tree when he’d called that morning. He bristled further, then took a calming breath. There was still something to be said for defusing the situation. Something could be done.

“What about Merlin?” Wes said, gently.

Harry’s expression flickered between sadness and a keen sense of anger. It was unsettling to see in Harry, who kept his monstrous temper tightly reined in. Watching it emerge to the fore with the severity of a thundercloud at the mention of Merlin was much like seeing the purpling of clouds pregnant with deadly lightning. There wasn’t enough common sense in Harry right now to rein himself in.

“What about him? He won’t have to deal with…with me. Not anymore. And he won’t have to hide it.” Harry wiped his mouth, swaying on his feet. “We weren’t supposed to be together as it is, and here I am, a burden on him. He’ll decorate the halls like Morgana, because that’s what we’re supposed to do, apparently. Pretend like they don’t exist. That we never loved them at all.”

“You think you’re the only one who lost Thomas?” Wes cried. “He was my mentor, too. Lucy – god, poor Lucy – she loved him for longer than either of us have been alive! Do you think it’s fair that you get to act this way when we’re all doing our best? You—you selfish prick!”

“At least I’m acting like someone I loved is gone!” Harry bellowed, finally. “Thomas was, he was—”

Wes didn’t give him a chance to finish. He charged, putting his shoulder into it. He met Harry’s solar plexus, sending them both sprawling into the newly-fallen snow. There was a struggle, muffled in the drift, as both men battled to be the one who came out less roughed up. Not their usual combat training, a pure struggle to see who would be the victor, complete with awkward fumbling in the snow.

Wes brought his elbow up, cracking it across Harry’s jaw even as Harry mashed a clumsy fist into his eye. Finally, Wes managed to get his knees under him and sat on Harry’s stomach hard, knocking the wind out of him.

Harry lay beneath him, gasping as tears rolled down his face.

Wes was breathing hard, but he didn’t move and Harry made no move to shove him off. His eye was swelling shut but he could see Harry’s jaw purpling.

“Is this…is this all? We don’t get to remember him? We drink to him and that’s that, into the void?” Harry was weeping in earnest now, his face turned up to the darkening sky. Clouds were rolling in, promising more snow. “Maybe that’s not how I want to go.”

“You signed on for this, Harry,” Wes murmured. “We don’t get our names in the paper.”

“Bugger the paper,” Harry moaned softly. “I just want to know that I’ll be missed.”

They were silent for a long moment, the air punctuated with their pained gasps and clouds of their breath in the wintry air.

“You should find a way to get out,” Harry said. His breathing came in a hiccupping wheeze. “Don’t leave Garima with…this. Don’t let her feel like this.”

“I’m not leaving Garima if I can help it,” Wes said. He slowly rose to his feet, the cold seeping in over adrenaline and leaving him feeling stiff and old. “And you’re not leaving, either.”

“You say that now,” Harry said. He stared at the hand Wes offered him, then took it. “But anything could happen.”

“That’s why we don’t worry about the future and live each day like it’s a gift,” Wes said. “That’s why it’s called the present.”

“What utter shit,” Harry said, even as Wes hauled him up and held him close for a long moment. He wrapped his arms around Wes’s middle and Wes supported his weight for longer than was perhaps necessary.

“I know,” he murmured into Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll call a cab.”

“…all right.”

* * *

**One Week Later**

Morgana startled at the tap on her door, looking up to find Galahad there once more. She frowned, reaching for her panic button, but he lifted his hands in placation.

“That won’t be necessary,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse, but lacking the slur of before. Taking a second look, she saw that he’d changed and cleaned up a little. The stubble from last week was gone, and his eyes were red-rimmed, but clear. The purple-black of a bruise across his jaw was yellowing as it faded out.

All in all, there stood before her a sober, clear-headed man.

“May I speak to you a moment?”

There was a long moment of silence between them, Harry filling the doorway of her office without really trying, his presence one that had always preceded him, leaving no space for doubt as to who he was and what he was capable of – at least on the Estate grounds and in Kingsman. Now, though he didn’t exactly hunch, his head was bowed as he awaited her pleasure.

“I’ll…put on some tea,” she said, her voice cautious.

Harry nodded, moving to a chair in front of her desk and keeping it between them. Either for her peace of mind or his, she didn’t know, but Lucy busied herself with her little tea cart instead of fussing over it now. Putting water on to boil seemed to calm the jangling of her nerves, taking comfort in routine. She wiped her hands on her towel and hung it before turning and regarding Harry once more.

“I came to apologize.”

“I gathered,” she said. She hated how her voice sounded snappish, and she attempted to moderate her tone. “The intent is appreciated.”

Harry paused for a moment, knowing that forgiveness was at her pleasure, and he nodded after considering it. “My actions were unbecoming of a gentleman, even one overwhelmed by the grief I was feeling.”

“Yes,” she said. She sat, then, behind her desk and placed her palms flat on the blotter. “Harry, you must understand that—I haven’t stopped mourning.”

“I…I know. I think all along I knew,” he said, his voice soft.

“What Thomas and I were to each other, there’s nothing like it I have ever experienced,” she said. “I couldn’t quantify it if I tried, nor will I attempt to. And I know you loved him, like I loved him. Still love him.”

She inhaled, feeling the hot well of grief open once more, leaving her words thick and full of pain.

“But if you ever come in here and accuse me of being an unfeeling monster again, I won’t just have Tristan escort you out,” she said. “What you did was selfish and boorish.”

Harry nodded, solemnly. “It was.”

There was something freeing, in Harry letting her talk. She could let it spill out over her lips like poison, and Harry seemed to understand, on a basic level. Though it wouldn’t be helpful to do it in the long run, the stopgap letting out just enough steam to bring her back to equilibrium was welcome in a week full of stress.

“But I can’t say I don’t understand,” she said. “Chester King and I had words.”

Harry’s brows lifted, his normally placid expression betraying itself in his surprise.

“I was placed on administrative leave for my cheek,” she said. “We’re all suffering the consequences, not just you.”

“Morgana,” he said softly. “Lucy.”

“I know you don’t think well of me for the appearances I choose to put on here while on the estate,” she said. “But you must understand that survival molds us into things that aren’t exactly beautiful, nor are we all paragons. Not even you.”

“Can you forgive me?” he asked.

“In time, yes,” she said. “For now, the best thing you can do is drink your tea, and then go home. Hold Merlin tightly, get yourself to some semblance of normal, and return to a routine. Continue on. Wallowing in this won’t bring him back, nor will it help you, as much as it feels cathartic for you to do it.”

The kettle whistled, and she poured the water over the tea, letting it steep. Turning back to Harry, she watched his hands. Not normally one to fidget unless she were examining him, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, deep in thought.

“Harry,” she said.

He looked up, dark brown eyes pained.

“Just because we were angry with each other doesn’t mean I love you any less,” she said. She stepped toward him, cupping his face while being gentle with the bruising on his jaw. “You are, and always have been, too caring for a man who does what you do. You’re capable of more love than you know what to do with it, and pouring it into someone who didn’t know how to reciprocate with the same…I know it hurt.”

He leaned his face into her palms, his eyes sliding closed. He gave a shuddering sigh as Lucy stroked his unbruised cheek with her thumb.

“But you must live,” she said. “Live for him, because every breath you and Wes and Merlin draw is a slap in the face for anyone who should like to erase his memory. Martin too, in a sense. All of you thriving when someone wishes otherwise is possibly the sweetest revenge.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I know you are.” She smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You’re still getting coal in your stocking this year.”

“I’ll just use it to keep myself warm,” he said. She chuckled and moved to bring him his tea.

It wouldn’t be their usual happy Christmas, but in time, it would get easier, she knew. For the both of them, and those around them, time would heal the wounds to a bittersweet memory of what they were. Things were too fresh and raw, and they would all need time to process.

It would get easier.

She would just have to believe that until it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was both physically painful and cathartic to write. Eventually, things do get better, but I think perhaps Morgana never really forgets Harry lashing out. Harry's temper is terrible, and it's been a known thing for most of their acquaintance, but this is really the first time Lucy's ever really been on the receiving end of it.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, Constant Readers. If you liked it, feel free to comment. With the kerfuffle on tumblr about shutting down blogs, I might migrate the actual writing to both pillowfort and livejournal. I haven't decided on initial steps just yet. But eventually. I won't be leaving tumblr, but man, it doesn't hurt to have a backup.


	6. Day Six - Goose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's last trip home for the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day Six: Goose

**Hart Family Home, Herefordshire, England – Christmas Eve 1989**

Harry frowned as Beaumont answered the door.

“Good evening, Beaumont,” he said. The older man, still straight-backed and proud, beamed at him.

“Good evening yourself, young Master Henry,” he replied. “You’re late.”

It was said with an air of expectation, not censure. Harry’s own quirks had always been a source of amusement for Beaumont, when he couldn’t correct them. Not that he begrudged the butler anything; the greying old servant was one of Harry’s closest companions in his childhood. It was more the fact that things hadn’t seemed to change.

That was one of the constants in Harry’s recollection, however.

His parents hosting Christmas dinner meant that he must bear with seeing his elder brothers and their families, at least for a few hours. He inhaled, allowing Beaumont to take his coat. The house smelled of cedar and woodsmoke, along with the scents of roasting food.

His father always set a magnificent table, it was just that the company left much to be desired.

There was the thunder of footsteps as his brother Malcolm’s brood heard the door and lead the charge. Three rambunctious boys, aged eight to twelve, along with their six-year-old sister tramped down the stairs towards Harry. Following closely behind were Ian and Kitty’s two, a boy and a girl of nine and ten.

They clustered around their uncle, chattering in the excited (and rather sticky) way that children had. Harry placated them with the small bag of chocolates and novelty crackers he’d gotten on the way in, and they scattered back to whatever game they’d been playing before the bell rang. Little Genevieve, the six-year-old, demanded to be lifted, and Harry did, allowing her to plant a chocolate smudged kiss to his cheek before she ran off to pester her brothers.

Harry had always been awkward around children that age; his nieces and nephews were no exception. Still, it had been good to see them growing up strong and healthy, and that was all he could really ask for, he supposed. He accepted the damp handkerchief Beaumont offered and got the chocolate off his face before he entered the sitting room to see his mother.

Queen of her roost, Katherine Hart commanded the eye. She was delicate, a small woman compared to his father, and even smaller than he remembered. Wispy and classically beautiful, she had a stern set to her jaw that could never quite be overridden by good breeding, and a line that Harry knew would appear between her brows when someone denied her something made her unique to a lot of the women of her station. Her carefully dyed blonde hair was done up in an elegant twist at the back of her neck, and her bright blue eyes locked onto her son as he entered the room. Both of his parents had presence, but his mother’s was the presence of a debutante who knew the room had eyes on her. It was a passive presence, often overshadowed by his father’s more dynamic command of a room, but it held the attention nonetheless.

Harry often wondered how his sisters-in-law could stand being adrift in its wake.

Both of his sisters by marriage were elegant, pretty women in their own way. Kitty was soft and blonde, like his mother, with that same sense of debutante airiness that was an affectation on Katherine’s part and a willful refusal to mature on Kitty’s. There wasn’t a lick of sense in Kitty’s head from what Harry had been able to tell – and Ian perhaps preferred it that way, without someone to behave like a partner, he was free to handle the family as he pleased.

Malcolm had gone another way. Eleanor was dark-haired, with an olive complexion and almond shaped eyes that called to her Mediterranean heritage. Heiress to several vineyards in Italy and France, she had been a canny businesswoman before she and Malcolm had married. Keen intelligence meant that she likely had many more cards to play by being here instead of dragging Malcolm to her family’s get-together. Either way, Harry found he liked her, for her brief moments of acerbic wit. He didn’t often care for the appraising looks she gave him when she thought him oblivious, however. He’d managed to dodge that particular bullet so far, but Lord only knew what she was planning.

They were sitting before the fire, each with a cup of tea to hand. It wasn’t yet the time for a stronger beverage, at least for the ladies, and Harry had never wanted a scotch so much in his life at the thought of it. Instead, he put on a smile for Mother, allowing her to fuss over him and press a kiss to his cheek. He reciprocated, greeting her and his sisters-in-law with as much decorum as he’d always had.

“My boy, how are you?” she asked, leaning back to look at him.

“Well, as always, Mother,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re all looking lovely.”

“Flirt,” she replied. “When are you going to bring home someone, like your brothers?”

“Oh, Mother, you know I’m an affirmed bachelor,” he said, letting the question roll off his shoulders like it did every year.

At one time, he might have wondered what Merlin would have thought of all this, the pomp and circumstance and absolute cattery that went on in the name of getting together with family. It had been years since he’d even considered inviting Merlin.

For one, it would only agitate his parents and likely annoy his eldest brother, having to smooth feathers at dinner. For another, Merlin had made his wishes clear. There could be no…them. Instead of the crushing weight it had been three years ago, there was a sort of static, as though a piece of him had fallen asleep and the nerves were sending no real signals to him about it. Numb.

Harry rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth instead of commenting further, listening to the women chatter as it descended into a dull roar around him. The need for something alcoholic nagged at him, but he ignored it, letting his distant answers appease his mother.

He already knew very well that she didn’t care to hear how he really felt.

After an appropriate time period, he bid his mother and sisters goodbye, knowing that they would remain there and chat until supper. He made his escape, heading down the hallway to his father’s library.

Knocking and hearing Malcolm call to enter, he opened the door to find his brothers and father clustered much as their feminine counterparts, each with a glass of amber liquid in hand. Harry and his brothers were similar in looks only. Ian and Malcolm were soft around the middle, even in their early thirties, and while the Hart genes ensured that both of them would be handsome as they greyed, their habits meant it would be a fading thing, something to be grasped at later in life – perhaps with a mistress or two. Malcolm, the eldest, was the only one of the trio to have inherited his mother’s sharp blue eyes, though for him they were paler, like chips of ice.

Both of his elder brothers possessed a keen intelligence, but it was focused on themselves rather than the world at large. God help the world if they ever were to turn their efforts to philanthropy.

Harry shook hands all around, stopping before his father to bow his head.

“So, the prodigal son returns,” grunted Reginald. Harry did his best not to bristle, knowing it would be over soon enough. “Still chasing butterflies?”

The lie that was almost truth. Something told to his parents and siblings to keep them safe, keep them out of his real business. Little Harry, always rattling on about lepidoptery at the table, going so far as to defy his father’s wishes and enroll in Oxford to pursue it. Cut short by a stint in the army that was to please Reginald, Harry ‘returned’ and completed his studies, according to the diploma on his wall and the sneer on his father’s face as he lifted his gaze to his youngest son.

Reginald was much like a mature lion, older now than Harry remembered him, but still very much the head of his pride. Iron grey hair cropped close on the sides was swept back in a style similar to Harry’s own, his dinner jacket immaculate and his trousers pressed. His shoes were shined and not a hair was out of place. Reginald could just as easily go into London for a night at the theater as he could sit down with his family for Christmas supper.

Brown eyes the same color as Harry’s and just as sharp with intelligence fixed him in place.

“Yes,” Harry murmured. “I published another paper last month on the—”

“Mm,” Reginald grunted, cutting Harry off. “It must pay well.”

Harry inhaled, wishing again for a glass of scotch. He didn’t dare move without his father’s pleasure, however. It would be easier to sit there and take it, the censure and mockery, the pitying gazes of his brothers from where they were seated on the library’s couch. Eventually Reginald would get tired of picking at his faults like so many healing scabs.

“Well enough,” Harry allowed. “I get by.”

“You would have been more suited to joining the company,” Reginald said, gearing up to his oldest argument. The Harts had long been involved in finance and investment, with his father’s initial foray into the stock market after the second world war. His brother Malcolm was the head now, with his brother Ian overseeing overseas accounts. It would have been easy for the third Hart son to be gobbled up by avarice and the pursuit of money.

Instead, he’d transformed. His life had taken a different path.

“I’m sure,” Harry said.

“Are you being smart with me, lad?” Reginald asked.

“Of course not, Father,” Harry said. He couldn’t quite keep the acidity out of his reply. “A battle of wits would mean that we would both have to be armed.”

Too much time battling with Chester King. The slip hadn’t gone unnoticed, of course. There was a sharp inhale from Malcolm, as though he’d anticipated his youngest brother making a scene, and Ian’s brown eyes were dancing with hidden mirth.

“I can still take you outside and strop you until you squall, boy, mark me,” Reginald said. He rose, his height even with Harry’s, and Harry met his gaze calmly. The fear he’d once felt had mellowed into a sort of pity for his father. He’d stared down the barrel of a gun, with a Scottish brogue in his ear, remaining unruffled here was a matter of course.

Harry found that once again, he missed Merlin, if only for his scathing commentary this time.

“You might attempt it, Father, but I fear age is catching up to you,” Harry said, still with that smooth indifference that so enraged Chester.

It was interesting, seeing two men who were so similar becoming wroth about the tiniest things. Whereas Chester was actively malicious, however, his father was merely a product of his environment. An only child with an inheritance he’d grown into a veritable fortune, a title, and now a family of his own he’d long become used to ruling with an iron will, it was only a matter of time before that iron became brittle.

“If you came spoiling for a fight, Henry, you might as well go home,” Malcolm said, stepping in smoothly between the two of them.

Henry. Lord, he hated that name. His grandfather’s, named such because Reginald had big plans for his youngest that Harry could never quite match.

There was a long, tense silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the fireplace.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Harry said at last. He relaxed, having settled to the balls of his feet in case either his father or his brothers had decided to take a swing at him. Now, however, he nodded to each of them in turn.

“You weren’t dismissed,” Reginald said, overriding his son’s command.

“I rather think I just was,” Harry replied. “Unless you’ve got something more interesting to say, and I don’t mean your outdated opinions on homosexual rights or my current employment, I don’t believe I’ve anything left for me here.”

“Your inheritance—”

“Is of no consequence, considering the hoops I’ve had to jump through to even get a sniff at it,” Harry replied. “Either keep me in the will or write me out. I’m not even your spare, and I’ve much better things to do with my time.”

“Henry!”

Harry whirled on his oldest brother with the kind of speed that had Malcolm stepping back on reflex.

“It’s Harry, Malcolm. Even you can’t be as willfully stupid as all that,” he barked. “You want me gone, I’m leaving.”

He straightened his cuffs and turned on his heel.

“Happy Christmas, and all that utter shit,” he shot over his shoulder as he exited the library. Even as the door slammed behind him and his father started shouting, Harry took a detour through the kitchen.

* * *

Merlin’s private line rang through to his flat in Whitechapel. He sighed, putting down his mug of tea. Only one man would be calling him at this hour on Christmas Eve. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he picked up.

“Company.”

“Merlin, I know you’re not at the office,” Harry said smoothly.

“And what if I am, Galahad?”

“I don’t hear the servers in the background,” Harry replied. “Besides, it’s half past nine in the evening, I doubt even you would stay that late, you workaholic.”

Merlin cursed to himself. Harry always had been too clever by half. “What do you want, Galahad?”

“I want someone to eat this ridiculously sized Christmas goose with, is that so much to ask?”

“Goose? I thought you were going to your parents’ home for supper?” Merlin asked.

Knowing all of Harry’s habits aside, he’d submitted the time off a week ago, granted solely on the fact that there were no missions on Christmas Eve, as was tradition. Missions ran over, missions delayed, but the end of December tended to be for Central to wrap everything up, leaving new missions for the new year ahead, barring initial intelligence gathering.

“There was a change of plans,” Harry said, sniffing delicately. “Father started in on me as soon as I walked in the door, and I remembered I’m a Kingsman and didn’t have to take that sort of talk any longer.”

“Harry—”

“Look, it was either this or thrash my brothers and while that might have been more cathartic, you have to admit this is better revenge,” Harry blurted. “Where are they going to get another goose on such short notice?”

Merlin sighed, fighting against the laughter bubbling just below the surface. It really was rather funny. “Shall I leave the door unbolted?”

“Please. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“It’s already cold, isn’t it?” He’d be coming from Herefordshire, so of course it would be.

“I had Beaumont wrap it in foil and my Aston Martin’s seats are heated,” Harry said. Merlin could _hear_ the insufferable grin in his voice. “Eat with me?”

“Fine.” Merlin looked at the clock. “But if you’re later than eleven, I’m locking up and going to bed.”

“I shall do my utmost,” Harry replied. “See you soon.”

Merlin hung up the phone and rubbed at his face. Typical Harry Hart. He tried not to read too much into it, instead rising and moving into the kitchen to prepare for his late-night visitor.

Maybe he had enough to throw together a proper supper while he waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever gone into detail about the Harts before. For some reason, Harry isn't too fond of his family. C:
> 
> Sorry this is coming in a little late, Constant Readers. I'm calling it a win because it's published before midnight my time, though. I'm a little behind on these because I've run through my prepared drafts and so I'm scrambling to get more written. Some of these may be late. That's all right, though. There will be 31 in total. Thank you for reading.
> 
> If you like them, consider leaving a comment. They make my day!


	7. Day Seven - Shepherds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Lancelot await extraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven Prompt: Shepherds

**Deep in the Apennine Mountains, Italy – December 1962**

Thankfully, the door of the cabin wasn’t barred shut. Lancelot shouldered it open and leaned heavily against the frame, supporting Gawain around the middle. He staggered inside, Gawain limping in with a bloody calf and cursing up a storm.

The cabin itself was dry, if cold, but once he got his fellow Knight situated, he was able to suss out where the firewood was kept and get a blaze going in the grate. Snow was falling fast and thick outside, but thankfully there was a storage area with enough wood to keep them warm until they could signal coordinates to Kingsman for pickup.

It was a devil of a mission. Human trafficking gone wrong, the whole village under the sway of some nasty characters looking to move them through Italy and into the middle east, where they’d disappear. Lancelot and Gawain had broken their defenses, and a timely call to authorities several villages over produced police that weren’t on the trafficker’s payroll. There was chaos as the released hostages went for the safety of the police lines, and Gawain and Lancelot had been tracking the remaining men over the last week, like shepherds seeking the last of their wayward flock.

Snow as well as the last holdouts had taken their toll on the Kingsman, and a through and through on Gawain’s calf meant that a timely escape was needed. They had transmitted their general coordinates to Kingsman before the snow fell, and safety meant lying low before the storm that was incoming off the mountain and waiting for rescue.

“Bloody Greeks,” Gawain spat. “Think they can walk all over us.”

“Considering there were only dregs for the police to mop up, it’s a good day’s work done,” Lancelot replied archly, moving to shuck his overcoat and his rifle. “Only a little wet and bedraggled.”

“And a little shot up,” Gawain grumbled.

“Only a bit,” Lancelot chuckled. He hung his overcoat to dry, knowing their soaked clothes would have to go. “Come on, off with your winter gear, as much as you can.”

His hands were numb, but the fire was helping, bringing feeling back into his chilled limbs. They’d been forced marching for close to two days, slogging through hip deep snow, and now more snow was falling. It would be several days before they could be extracted, but they were equipped to wait it out. They had emergency rations for up to a week, and the snow when boiled, would provide fresh water.

All in all, Thomas Brampton had been in worse spots. Chester might grumble, but he had too. It was just a matter of being patient.

Stripping to bare skin save his skivvies, there were enough blankets and in good enough shape that it was the work of a moment to knot one around his hips and kneel in front of Chester. Blue eyes the color of faded denim peered up at Chester, assessing how he was doing.

“Come on, old man,” he said. “Trousers, too.”

Chester grunted, undoing his belt with clumsy hands. His fingers slipped and Thomas reached for it, only to have his hands knocked away.

“I can get it, Lancelot, don’t baby me.” Thomas shrugged, glancing down, and noticed blood seeping into Chester’s sock.

“I’ll need to stitch that, most likely.”

Chester grunted again. His fingers finally got his belt undone, and Thomas tugged while he kicked off the wet wool trousers. There was a dark wet stain on his calf where the bullet had entered. They’d stuffed gauze into the wound until they could rest, and he would definitely would need it seen to.

Thomas was quick with more woolen blankets, helping Chester to a chair closer to the fire and settling him before it. The fire was crackling merrily, and it seemed to be warming up in here.

“Do you feel like that was worth it?” Chester groused as Thomas fished his first aid kit from his pack. He put snow on to boil as he tore open his sterile needle and thread. The wound was seeping, but some painkillers and a quick stitch would see Chester right as rain.

“Of course,” Thomas replied, not really considering the question. “That’s what we do. We’re Kingsman, we save the bloody world.”

“Half of them will go right back to where they were in six months,” Chester said. He cast a dark gaze out the window, where the snow was piling up. “If not kidnapped, then used as collateral when they don’t pay one loan shark or another.”

“It doesn’t mean that they will,” Thomas argued. He gently pulled the gauze free, causing Chester to hiss. “It means that they’ve been through something frightening. You lose all pity when you’ve been shot.”

“So do you,” Chester said. “But I don’t see me stitching you up.”

“That’s because I was faster on the draw, and lucky I was. He was trying to take your knee cap, and I rather like you in one piece, Gawain.” Thomas pulled his flask from his pack and offered it over to Chester.

“Ta, Lancelot.” He uncapped the flask and took a healthy swallow, his calf tensing as Thomas began to stitch him up.

It was bleeding, but there wasn’t a whole lot of worry for it to be infected. He finished up quickly, rising to rinse his hands in the snow and then wrap the wound in fresh gauze. He taped it off and sat back on his heels, accepting the flask back. He took a long draught and set it aside.

Hot water meant tea, and he bustled about fixing a cup for each of them, the ceramic mugs clean but dusty. He rinsed them and then prepped everything out, setting one in front of Chester. His partner’s hand snaked out, seizing his wrist.

Chester looked like he wanted to say something, the air in the cabin gone thick in sudden anticipation. Thomas could feel the weight of it, even as it seemed to rest on Chester’s shoulders like a burden, bowing the taller man’s head down.

“Lancelot.” Chester’s voice was hoarse, perhaps from the cold and alcohol, but rough nonetheless. “Thomas. I…”

He released Thomas’s wrist, licking his lips as he looked up at him.

“I’m not the sort of man you think I am,” he said, at last. “I’m not the one who saves the bloody world.”

“You are,” Thomas replied. “But right now you’re cold, you’ve lost some blood, and you’re hobbling. You’re also running on no sleep at all. You’ll feel better about that with food, hot tea, and sleep.”

For a moment, he felt the ghost of Chester’s long fingers pressing against the bones of his wrist, as though to either keep him fast or break them. They burned, almost like a brand.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Chester said. He blinked, and it was as if the conversation never happened. “All we’ve left to do is wait on Kingsman, so we’d best be in top form.”

Thomas offered Chester a crooked smile and set about making them something warm to eat. It would chase away the chill that had invaded his bones.

* * *

**Kingsman Estate, England – Christmas Eve, 1996**

The liquor didn’t warm him like it had in the Italian mountains. For some reason, it didn’t surprise him. Chester King turned away from the fire and the flickering memories it brought him, his chambers on the estate almost stuffy for the heat directed into it. Still, he remained chilled to the bone, as though the cold had never left him.

He stared out the window at the snow that blanketed the grounds.

“I told you,” he muttered. “You were wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punishing evil with your best friend can take a toll on you. C: But that's a story for another time.
> 
> Day seven is up, and thank you for following me as long as you have, Constant Readers. Let's see if I can keep this pace up throughout the month.


	8. Day Eight - Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a history of not being gracious about Christmas gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Eight Prompt: Scarf

**Kingsman Estate, England – December 2000**

Martin stared down at the wrapped parcel in his fellow knight’s hand, as though it were a snake that might bite him. Lancelot had caught him just outside the estate, word of his recent return from Smolensk must have been spread about. He’d had a chance to land, disembark, and then traverse the couple of hours by car to the estate, where Lancelot seemed to have been waiting in the wings. He still hadn’t had a chance to decompress, which for Martin was a run, a hot shower, and perhaps a book.

Now, however, his way had been barred by Lancelot, gift in hand. It was something that was still so foreign to Martin, though Harry and Merlin and even Lucy insisted on getting him gifts each year – and he found himself reciprocating, just to avoid disappointing them.

This, however, was not on the agenda, and was almost unwelcome. He’d been battling this thing inside him in regards to Lancelot and his inclusion into Kingsman. Their prior history did not – and could not – matter anymore. Lancelot attempting to resume a budding friendship at worst was unsettling to Martin.

He’d left Cambridge at eighteen with the intent to seek his own way, rather than his father’s. He’d found it, only for Lancelot to follow, nipping at his heels, albeit many years later. It would be laughable if something in it didn’t disturb Martin to his very core. In order to maintain his own equilibrium, he’d resorted to becoming everything his father had demanded of him once – cool, calculating, and distant.

Approaches by Lancelot had always been met with a sharp rebuke on Martin’s part, unless it was somehow related to his duties as a Kingsman. For almost three years, this hadn’t seemed to put a damper on Lancelot’s efforts to befriend him, though this was a drastic step on the other man’s part. Never before had he approached with a gift, holiday or otherwise. Martin drew himself up just short of where Lancelot would be able to reach him, tucking himself further into his navy wool peacoat, letting the snow settle on his shoulders.

“Don’t you have an assignment?” Martin asked.

“Delayed by the snowfall,” Lancelot said, gesturing at the flakes descending on the grounds.

Ah. Which meant that Lancelot had been pent up without a buffer for his nervous energy, which led to poor decisions more often than not. Perhaps this was where the idea had come from – or perhaps it had come from Galahad; the man was always banging on about caring for those important to them. Martin snorted softly, sending a plume of visible breath out between them.

“And this is how you spend the extra preparatory time that’s been given to you?” Martin asked, tilting his head at the gift in Lancelot’s hand. It was a pretty thing, a small box the size of a book, wrapped in green and gold with a curled green ribbon attached. It made him almost uncomfortable to look at it directly, as though it were a fallen star instead of a simple Christmas present.

“Well, not all of it,” Lancelot said. His hair was soft, free of the usual product intent on making them look smart and put-together, his scarf pulled up and close to his nose and mouth. “But I did want to deliver this before I left, a little cheer for you since I won’t be back before Christmas, from what Merlin was saying.”

“We wouldn’t spend Christmas together even if you were,” Martin drawled, trying to sound bored rather than agitated.

Lancelot hid his wince rather well, but the tightening of his eyes was clear to Martin, trained to read body language since before he’d joined Kingsman. He gave a minute shake of his head and just held the gift out to him.

“What is it, exactly, that you want, Lancelot?” Martin asked.

“Should I have to want something?” Lancelot replied, confusion in his voice. “It’s a present. For Christmas. No strings attached.”

“But why me?” Martin still hadn’t taken a move toward the gift, and he was sure Lancelot’s arm must be tired by now, but he didn’t waver.

“Why not you? I got something for all my friends.”

“We’re not friends,” Martin blurted. The quickness of his words was like a slap in the sharp chill of the air, and Lancelot did wince then.

“Ah.” He looked down at the gift, then up at Martin, then back to the gift in his hands. “I’d sort of hoped—”

“Whatever you hoped for, put it out of your mind,” Martin said. “We’re Kingsman, not students any longer.”

“Fine,” Lancelot said. “Take it anyway. Since you’re harping on being a Kingsman, take the gift, say thank you, then chuck it in the bin when I’m out of eyesight. Since we’re being _gentlemen_.”

Martin hadn’t moved, and Lancelot tossed the present at his feet. The green box landed in the snow by his shoes with barely a sound.

“You know, Percival,” he said. “Love is a gift, not a loan. I didn’t expect anything back. I just wanted you to have it.”

He didn’t exactly hiss his words, but there was a pain there all the same. Martin felt something in his chest shift in response to it, the thrum of something identical that resonated hard enough to make him queasy. By the time he managed to raise his eyes from his feet, James had rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Martin bent and retrieved the gift from the snow, holding it gingerly.

* * *

**Statesman HQ, Kentucky – December 2017**

James knocked on Martin’s door and peered around the jamb. “Ready for dinner, darl—”

He stopped, abruptly, at the sight of Martin dressed and in his wheelchair already. His dark hair was neatly combed, his eyes were bright and focused, and he was dressed in actual clothing rather than the comfortable sweats they’d been defaulting to as of late.

Martin turned the chair, giving James a half-smile. “Do I look all right?”

“Better than all right,” James said, feeling his voice getting thick.

They’d been doing what James had been calling ‘date night’ for the last couple of months. James would get dressed and whisk Martin up to a dining room in regular Statesman quarters. It wasn’t quite going out, but it was a manageable thing considering Martin’s recovery and rehabilitation. He still tired easily, but dinner and conversation were manageable without many of the pain medications he was taking. It was…enough, for now.

Both Martin and James found it to be the highlight of weeks that seemed to stretch on for recovery.

But this. Martin being ready without James having to bathe him, dress him, shave him. Not that James minded any of those things, it was just something that he had to think about each time they woke or decided to go somewhere. Having it done for him seemed almost surreal. Like a Christmas miracle.

“How did you—”

“Arthur… _Harry_ , helped,” Martin said, softly. “I asked him to while you were in the shower and getting things set up.”

Bless Harry, James thought to himself. Seeing Martin dressed in something close to what he would choose to wear before, even if the dark sweater was modified to keep his arm comfortably slung while his shoulder healed, well. It felt a lot like a balm to James’s soul, and likely felt the same to Martin.

“You look handsome,” James declared, bending down to press a soft kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Ready?”

“Almost,” Martin said. “I’ll need my coat. It’s snowing. Will you get me the one that was packed on the top of my bag?”

James nodded, stepping to the closet and pulling the coat from its hook. Gingerly, he helped Martin drape it around his shoulders. It would be enough for the quick walk across the Statesman grounds.

“Oh, my pocket,” Martin murmured. “On the left side. I can’t…”

James was already moving, withdrawing the soft scarf from the pocket before he helped Martin get seated again. He adjusted it in his hands, getting it ready to drape it around Martin’s neck, before he froze.

He stared down at the soft fabric in his hands, the blue and silver scarf old and clearly well-cared for, but that wasn’t why he’d stopped. This was something he thought for sure Martin had tossed long ago. He himself had tossed this scarf at Martin’s feet nearly twenty years ago. It seemed like an age, a lifetime ago, from where they were now, but he remembered the sick feeling that had roared through him when Martin had questioned _why him, why, of all people_.

James could never have explained it then, and hadn’t ever really bothered to explain it otherwise afterwards. He’d known Martin was something special, even back during their uni days. There had always been this magnetic pull of something…missing…before he’d rounded a corner in Kingsman and come face to face with him again. After nearly two decades of hardship, James couldn’t imagine life without Martin.

If he had to put it into words, it would simply be _I found him whom my soul loves_. Strange perhaps, pulling a quote from the Bible, but it had always been fitting and James had always loved the Song of Solomon when forced to church.

“James?” James realized he’d been holding the scarf overly long and Martin’s voice sounded concerned.

“You kept it,” James said, looking up at Martin. He swallowed, feeling his throat constrict. Martin looked concerned, as though he’d done something wrong.

“Yes,” Martin said. “I know I should have thanked you, long ago. But I never thought to chuck it in the bin like you suggested.”

James knelt beside the wheelchair, lifting the scarf over Martin’s head, tucking it around him to best keep him warm.

“I was right,” he said softly. “It does suit you.”

He rested his forehead against Martin’s, his eyes closing briefly. It wasn’t often that James found himself emotionally overwhelmed; he left that to Martin’s side of things, being much freer with his own emotions.

“I love you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the corner of Martin’s mouth.

“A wise man said once that love was a gift, not a loan,” Martin said. James chuckled. “I thought about that for a long while.”

“So, I’m a wise man, now?” James asked, rising and moving behind Martin’s wheelchair to push him to dinner.

“You have your moments,” Martin said. He tipped his head back and peered up at James with a smile. “Few and far between, but they’re there.”

“I’ll take it,” James said. He rested his hand on Martin’s good shoulder, squeezing gently. Martin’s left hand covered his own, and he sighed out. “Ready to go?”

“With you?” Martin asked. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about this being so late, Constant Readers. I ended up injuring myself pretty badly, pulling my back out of alignment. It was to the point where it was painful to just sit, let alone write, so I took a couple of days to feel a little better. Either way, I hope that you enjoy this!


	9. Day Nine - Frost*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 Prompt: Frost
> 
> This is outside the usual universe for Photographs and Memories. This takes place in the [Florist AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017087/chapters/29770185) \- though it can be considered an AU of that AU, lovingly entitled 'What happens when Harry and Merlin aren't assholes who don't listen to each other.doc'

**Merlin’s flat in Whitechapel, London – December 2018**

He’d wheedled the address from Roxy. It hadn’t been hard, per se, but it had taken many promises that he wouldn’t tell Merlin that she gave it up without a fight. Still, it was a chilly day, the first vestiges of winter blowing in and reminding Harry that snow was due soon. For now, however, there was a crackly frost on the ground that crunched underfoot.

The sun hadn’t made its way past the clouds, though it was nearly noon, to break things up. Harry shrugged further into his wool overcoat, glad for his hat and gloves on such a blustery day. He finally found the little flat, Mister Pickle tugging on his lead as he made his way up to the steps. His knock was firm, but brief, and he and his pup stood on the stoop for a long moment.

There was no noise save the passing cars on an adjacent street, and a rhythmic knocking. It was familiar in a way that nagged at the back of his mind. He knocked again, only for the door of the adjacent flat to open.

An elderly lady, her hair bound up in a kerchief, peered out at him. She gave him a once-over, then caught sight of Mister Pickle in his Christmas sweater and beamed at him. Somehow, he felt like he’d passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

“Oh! Are you looking for Mister Craig?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “I was. I had something to give him.”

“You’ll find him in his garden out back,” she said, pointing to the little path that led around to the side of the flats, presumably to all of them through a back-access gate. “He’s just gotten started on his routine.”

“Routine?” Harry asked curiously, but she was already shutting her door. Harry blinked, then descended to the path to see for himself.

As he rounded the block of flats, the rhythmic knocking got louder, until Harry realized that it was in fact the sound of someone splitting wood. He hadn’t heard that sound in years, not since his live-on groundskeeper had retired and he’d started buying cords of firewood that were delivered already cut. He and his dog approached the gate, the high wooden door leading to the back of the flat that was Merlin’s.

He opened the gate, finding it unlocked, and had to take a moment as he stopped and stared.

Merlin was splitting wood, logs as big around as his thighs splintering in a few swings from his axe. Harry watched, his eyes transfixed on the rise and fall of Merlin’s arms, the swell and flex of his back. His shoulders and core were outlined by the Henley he wore, flexing under the movement. It was a plain grey shirt, long sleeves rolled up to the chill air. Harry had the vague impression of a coat shed in the middle of the task, tossed carelessly on the pile of wood already quartered for use.

There was something primal in the back of Harry’s head that reared up, want roaring into his ears as the thunder of rushing blood. He swallowed, hard, watching the rise and fall of Merlin’s swings, as a large log was broken down. There was something innately attractive about it, the visible flex of the florist’s forearms, the hidden but tantalizing lines of his shoulders and back through the thin shirt he wore.

Harry had always admired physical strength. There was something infinitely appealing in a partner that could manhandle one against the wall, as he’d often joked. But here, and now, the lightness of the comment was lost. Harry immediately had the mental image of Merlin shoving him up against the brick of the garden wall, one of his elegant hands thrust into his hair as he pinned Harry in place with his hips.

Merlin grunted as he brought the axe down again, hewing a larger piece into smaller chunks, giving a noise of satisfaction as he bent to pick up the wood. He grabbed another piece but froze as he caught sight of Harry standing in the open gate.

Harry swallowed.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin blurted, dropping the log he was preparing to break down.

“I—” Harry’s throat was dry, the word coming out as a croak. “I had—that is, Roxy had something, and—”

“What?” Merlin asked, setting the axe aside. He moved closer. “Come in, shut the gate.”

“What?” Harry blanked, then realized he was gawping in the doorway. “Oh, yes—yes of course.”

He stepped into the garden, letting the latch click shut behind him. He pulled the bag from beneath his arm, offering it to Merlin. The florist took the bag, their hands brushing and firing the fanciful daydream Harry was spinning in his head to new levels.

“What’s all this?” Merlin asked.

“Dog biscuits,” Harry said, his words an outrush of breath. “Roxanne has been working on recipes and Mister Pickle has been her tester. There are too many for him, however, and we needed a wider testing pool. So she suggested I give some to you. I went to the shop but—”

“It was my day off,” Merlin said. “I see.”

“I’m sorry for the invasion of privacy,” Harry said. “I should have just waited, but. I wanted to see you.”

“Me?” Merlin asked. Hazel eyes were the color of new spring shoots as he lifted his gaze to Harry. “Why?”

“Am I not allowed to enjoy your company?” Harry asked. He hoped it was enough of a feint to cover exactly how flustered he was. Merlin had the sort of gaze that seemed to cut through him and lay him bare. What was worse is that Harry wanted it to lay him bare, to expose him for the other man’s perusal.

“Yes, but usually one waits to be invited to another’s flat.”

Harry flushed, his neck and ears going pink. “I’ve cocked it up.”

“A little,” Merlin admitted, though the chuckle he gave was throaty, anything but displeased. In fact, Harry liked the velvety tone of it, sliding down his spine like warm, sweet chocolate. It was a tone of voice that brooked no disobedience, but also held amusement for his antics, and it called to him in ways that kept surprising him. He’d known Merlin only a short time, but it felt like he was known from the inside out. Harry liked the feeling.

“I should go,” Harry said.

“You could stay,” Merlin replied.

Harry stopped mid-turn. “Really?”

“Of course,” Merlin said. “I’m chilled to the bone and could use the break. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” Harry said, breathing the word.

“Come in, then,” Merlin said, gesturing to his sliding back door.

“Am I invited this time, then?” Harry asked.

“You would have been welcome even if you weren’t,” Merlin said, and Harry had to wonder at that as he trailed Merlin to his door. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, anyway.”

“Oh?” Harry asked.

They stopped, and it was almost as though Merlin had read his mind, read the filthy thoughts that had enveloped his brain before he’d noticed Harry standing there. They were close, and Merlin reached out, touching Harry’s cheek.

“Yes,” Merlin said softly. “About this.”

He leaned in, that hand sliding to Harry’s hair, and Harry didn’t mind at all that his hat fell to the frosted grass, opening to Merlin as he met him halfway, Mister Pickle’s leash slipping from his hand as he wrapped it in the back of Merlin’s shirt so he could hold on for dear life.

Merlin needed a shave, the prickle of stubble against Harry’s jaw only serving to spark across his already overstimulated libido, and he was sure an obscene noise slipped free just before Merlin claimed his mouth. Merlin swiped his tongue gently along Harry’s lower lip and he did moan then, a noise swallowed by the florist. Merlin maneuvered him against the brick of the flat, pressing his hips against Harry’s.

Harry was fairly sure this was a heady daydream, and he’d come to in his own garden like he had so many times before, but the tug on his sandy curls made him growl. This was very real and he intended to give as good as he got. He sucked on Merlin’s tongue, with a nip that earned him a groan.

“How long?” Harry asked, as they broke apart. His voice sounded rough to his own ears as Merlin kept him pinned to the wall. There was a pause, as though Merlin were considering what to tell him.

“Long enough,” Merlin said. “Do you still want that cup of tea?”

“Lord, yes,” Harry said.

Merlin chuckled, burying his nose into Harry’s neck as he shivered.

“You’re going to catch cold,” Harry said, realizing that while Merlin’s attire was appealing, his coat was still on the wood pile. Harry wrapped his arms around Merlin, remembering the chill in the air.

“Then we should go inside and warm up,” Merlin said. Harry linked his hand with Merlin’s. “Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely working my way back to where I'm ahead of the game. My back still isn't 100%, but I'm gonna try and catch up with my prompts as I can. Thank you for your patience, Constant Readers.


	10. Day Ten - Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince Consort comes home for Christmas, bearing his princess in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day Ten: Ornament

**Michelle Unwin’s Flat – December 2018**

“There they are!” Michelle cried, flinging open the door and embracing both Eggsy and Tilde.

The Crown Princess and her Consort were conspicuously absent of bodyguards, but Eggsy had proven time and again that he had been enough to protect Tilde. (In reality, he didn’t blame his new father-in-law, but they would have to be much better than they were to escape his notice, idling all up and down the street. But then, he’d known about their tactics since the first time Tilde had stayed in ~~Harry’s~~ his old flat. To some, they might be subtle, but not to Galahad.)

“Hi, Mum,” Eggsy said, pressing his lips to his mum’s cheek. Almost four years without Dean’s influence had done wonders for Michelle Unwin. She’d filled out again, the sag of stress gone now that money wasn’t an issue. She could actually meet his eyes without flinching again, and that was saying quite a bit. It was more than enough for Eggsy, who was glad to be rid of the leech.

“I thought that surely—” Michelle peered over their shoulders, as though looking for someone else. “Was he coming?”

Eggsy blinked. “Who?”

“Oh, you know, Harry.” Michelle’s gaze hardened, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of way.

“No, mum. He’s in Scotland. We’ve got a lot of preparations to make, and not a lot of time,” Eggsy said.

“Oh,” Michelle said. She nodded after a moment in satisfaction. “Good. Christmas is a time for _family_.”

Eggsy fought back the argument that sprang forth, though he couldn’t hide his wince. His mum and Harry had history that had taken him into this future, but it wasn’t necessarily happy for either of them. Lee’s death had opened a rift between Michelle and Harry in a way he hadn’t been able to bridge for more than a couple of weeks, during his wedding.

Some things he couldn’t change. His mother’s struggles when he was younger were due to the direct interference of Kingsman. His father’s death and their subsequent detachment had left them living hand-to-mouth and had left Michelle to fall prey to a man like Dean. It was only Eggsy’s own stubborn perseverance and skill that had dragged them free of that life once and for all.

It just so happened that Harry, as Lee’s mentor and the Knight that had proposed him for Lancelot, had been the face that Michelle attached to her suffering. Trauma molded them all in different ways, and this was one hole that wasn’t his to patch.

Perhaps some things weren’t meant to co-exist peacefully, but that didn’t mean that Eggsy would stop trying.

She had come out of the wedding preparations with a better understanding of Harry, and he of her, but it was unlikely that they’d be friends any time soon. Eggsy swallowed that, though it was a difficult pill. Perhaps time would cauterize that wound, eventually.

“Come inside, it’s freezing,” Michelle said. She tugged Tilde close, escorting her daughter-in-law to the sitting room of the new flat he’d secured for them not long before Poppy’s nonsense. It was a cozy two-bedroom, small enough for Michelle to manage on her own but large enough so that Daisy had room to grow.

Speaking of…

Laughter came from the sitting room, and another voice joined the chatter. Eggsy hung up his coat and then his wife’s (and if that phrase didn’t make him feel giddy, nothing would) before making his way in. Tilde was seated comfortably on the couch, her feet up, and she had a hand over the small swell of her belly as Michelle pattered about, picking up clutter. Daisy was decorating the tree with paper stars, the little lopsided craft paper spangles pride of place hanging around the center of the tree.

“There she is,” Eggsy said, dropping to a knee as Daisy scrambled to leap into his arms. He caught her, laughing, and blew raspberries in her neck until she giggled. She wiggled to be let down and she marched over to Tilde, wrapping her arms gently around her new sister. Tilde gathered her close, hugging her and holding her on her lap as she’d been wont to do whenever they visited Daisy.

His sister was getting huge, Eggsy mused. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to haul her around like he had been, and there was a pang there. While his first child was still to be born, he’d done his fair share in raising Daisy. It felt too fast. He wondered if his mum felt the same.

“I have something for you,” Michelle called. “Before I forget.”

Eggsy rose as she returned to the sitting room, bearing a box. It was one he recognized; one of his mum’s most treasured boxes, only taken out during Christmas time. Inside, there were heirloom ornaments from both sides of his family, including some that had been gifted when he was born. The usual toddler ornaments, ‘My First Christmas’ and the like.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said. “They’re yours, after all, and were always meant to be. I’ve kept Daisy’s separate, and I know you’ll probably have some sort of royal tradition for your own little one but—”

“This is great, mum,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her, hugging her close. “Thank you.”

“I wanted to get one for…Tilde, when the next Christmas comes around,” Michelle said. She glanced between the two of them. “Would that be all right?”

“It would be wonderful,” Tilde said, smiling up at her mother-in-law. Eggsy swore he fell in love with her a little more.

Michelle had been wary of her, too, until she’d proven that she was interested in Eggsy for himself, and not for his fancy new job. This had, of course, come before they’d revealed that she was Crown Princess, but it had been enough for his mother all the same. It meant a lot that Tilde wanted to include their traditions in the rest of the flurry that was happening back at the palace.

Michelle wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I love you both, you know.”

“We love you too, Mum,” Eggsy said.

Tilde nodded, leaning back into the soft cushions of the couch. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a visit.”

It would take time, Eggsy thought, as he slipped to the kitchen to get the tea things together. Eventually, his mother would come to terms with everything he was, Kingsman included. He couldn’t tell her the details, but enough had been similar to what Lee had told her that she’d made an educated guess. Michelle was hardly stupid, nor would Eggsy pretend she was, and it was only a matter of time before she grew comfortable with the idea.

Christmas was a time for miracles, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michelle still associates a lot of hardship in her life with Kingsman and their inability to provide some sort of restitution for Lee's death. That 'favor' felt like scraps. I think they'll get there, just not as fast as perhaps Eggsy would like.
> 
> Lord, I love Eggsy and Tilde, though. They're genuinely cute and sweet and honestly it gives me life. I'm also eternally bitter they wrote out Michelle and his sister (canonically I don't believe her name is Daisy but it's popular fanon so w/e) out of Golden Circle. Michelle was such a nuanced character, at least, I think so. Then again, there but for the grace of God go I.
> 
> I might have enough time to get Day 11 done tonight, if not, then definitely tomorrow. Thanks for sticking with me, Constant Readers.


	11. Day Eleven - Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes to Kingsman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Eleven Prompt: Choir

**Kingsman HQ, Scotland – December 2018**

The last Christmas tree was the most important. Rather than have the staff bring it in, Harry elected to do it himself, with the help of James. They hauled the living tree up the steps and into the main entrance of the castle, past the bustle of the workers in the main hall and down to the study that Harry had commandeered to be his own, something adjacent to his and Merlin’s offices.

Instead of the sweeping library that was used by many Knights as a place to unwind and relax, and as a general gathering place for both Knight and prospect, this library was smaller, containing volumes that were significant to Harry, Merlin, or the both of them. It did contain the meeting table with the obligatory broadcast functions, and Merlin had only to finish making the necessary adjustments before Councils could be called once again. However, in general, it was a private place, reserved for close friends and family when there was no official Council called. It was here that James and Harry hauled the very last Christmas tree, a living spruce that wobbled in its bucket of damp soil as they maneuvered it up the stairs.

It was bracing work, considering how cold the air was, but Harry and James didn’t flag despite recent injuries. Both were still recovering, James from London and Harry from Cambodia, but they considered themselves to be in fine fettle compared to their partners, and thus, it fell to them to decorate the family space. Harry was in a fine mood this morning, breathing in the rich, sharp scent of the tree’s needles as they worked their way through the stone halls of the castle. In that sense, he was pleased that Martin’s brother Mickey had insisted on live trees, considering cut trees an abomination. They would plant each of these smaller trees on the property once the holiday was done, and they would live out the rest of their natural cycle in the woods that bordered the Kingsman property.

He hardly realized he was humming softly under his breath until he heard James chuckle. He peered at their former Lancelot through the veil of needles, only to find James grinning at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Usually it took Arthur cutting us loose to ‘spend time with our families’ during Christmas to get you to smile about it,” James said. “But look at you, you’re all aquiver with holiday cheer.”

“Things change,” Harry said. He would have shrugged, but James might have dropped his side of the tree with the sudden jostle. “Chester King’s grip on Kingsman is no more, and neither is the Knight’s Council there to impose the old rules on us.”

“True,” James said. They came to the first set of stairs, and there was a brief silence as they maneuvered the tree around the spiral staircase. Merlin hadn’t gotten his hands on these yet, or they’d have used the accessibility functions their Wizard was installing for his own use. This particular staircase had been deemed non-vital for Merlin’s renovations at the moment, which also meant that it was perfect for them to take their time. It was out of the way of the other workers moving about and Harry preferred it that way.

For now, they put their backs into it.

“I suppose we all have a lot to be cheerful about,” Harry mused as they took a brief break at the top of the stairs. Neither was breathing hard, but it was also a good way to get scolded by Morgana if they pushed themselves too hard.

“I’d say so,” James replied. “We’re rebuilding. We’re alive. That’s the thing I didn’t foresee happening, and after—”

He swallowed, visibly, his throat working as his gaze slipped to the side, eyes clouding over. He was so different from the James of a decade ago, a full-blown hedonist with very few limits. Now he was more subdued, with flashes of the old James shining through. It was happening more now, with therapy and with Martin awake. James was coming back to himself. Even now, Martin was sleeping better, settled in his and James’s quarters on the estate in one of the lower levels.

Things would get better. They just needed time.

But it was Christmas, and Harry had been doing everything he could to bring everyone’s minds away from the looming threats on the horizon. They deserved this reprieve, a pause on their lives in constant motion.

“James,” Harry said. James looked up, to find Harry smiling. James lost the faraway look in his eyes and his eyes crinkled at the corners in his answering grin. Harry nodded to the tree, and they both got back to work, carrying it down the hall toward their next set of stairs.

Harry’s humming became livelier as they moved.

_“Here we go a-wassailing, among the leaves so green,”_ Harry sang, his baritone rolling through the hall and echoing nicely along the stones. _“Here we come a-wand’ring, so fair to be seen.”_

James’s laughter pealed as he hummed along. He joined in, his own voice just an octave or so off.

_“Love and joy, come to you, and to you your wassail, too. And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year. And God send you a Happy New Year!”_

Their voices rose, the song rich with their singing even with the faster pace of the carol. Heads began to poke out of offices as he and James passed, but they were familiar, friends and family, Knights and Kingsman agents all. They were home, they were safe, and it was Christmas.

It was a time to be merry, wasn’t it?

_We are not daily beggars_

_That beg from door to door,_

_But we are neighbors' children_

_Whom you have seen before_

_Love and joy come to you,_

_And to you your wassail, too,_

_And God bless you, and send you_

_A Happy New Year,_

_And God send you a Happy New Year._

Morgana laughed at them from the office she had commandeered along the same hallway, her eyes sparkling as they sang. They paused, each leaning in to receive a kiss on the cheek. They continued on their way, wending through the halls of the castle to their final destination.

They hadn’t realized they’d gathered a crowd until James looked back and laughed, breaking off his part in the song. Harry looked back, seeing all the people he cared about close behind them, each looking more bemused than the last. Rather than explain himself, he just continued on, James singing along with him.

Finally, they reached Harry’s private library, where Merlin surely heard them coming. He had, in fact, and was standing with a bemused smile on his face as Harry and James blew in, the tree in hand. They set it in the corner, dusting off their hands as they sang another refrain. Only then did Harry allow himself to interrupt the song, the last refrain fading as he leaned in to greet Merlin with a kiss to the cheek.

James wasn’t one to deny anyone a big finish, however, striding over to Harry and Merlin and clasping their shoulders. He beamed at them, his chest swelling as he took a breath to continue.

_“God bless the masters of this house,”_ he sang, his eyes glittering and bright in the weak winter sunlight that streamed in through the window. He squeezed their shoulders, then moved to Lucy, spinning her in a pirouette while she laughed. “ _Likewise, the mistress, too!”_

He handed her off to Tequila, who caught her with the same chivalry he showed Ginger, grinning at her. She patted his hand and he released her, both of them looking happier than Harry had remembered seeing in a while.

“ _And all the little children, that round the table go.”_ Eggsy swatted at James as he pinched his cheek; Roxy merely laughed and hugged her uncle. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close and kissing her temple before he continued. “ _Love and joy, come to you, and to you, your wassail too, and God bless you and send you a Happy New Year. And God send you a Happy New Year.”_

As the last notes faded, there rose a bubble of laughter. For a moment, Harry had no idea where it had come from, until he realized everyone was staring at him. The laugh had come, unbidden, swelling his chest and breaking forth.

So, he laughed. He felt lighter than he had in years, his arm slung about Merlin’s waist, Merlin’s slung about his, a freshly chosen tree to decorate in the corner and the people who had made it happen standing before him.

He inhaled, smiling at all of them.

“Shall we finish decorating?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and double up until I'm caught up, but I don't know if I can keep that pace going. We'll see. Either way, enjoy! The song Harry and James are singing is an older carol, but it gets stuck in my head because the tempo is nice. Every year. Every. Damn. Year.


	12. Day Twelve - Traffic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all plans are good ones, and not all surprises are welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 Prompt: Traffic

**London, England – December 2009**

“We’re going to be late,” Harry murmured.

“Not unusual for you,” Merlin replied from the passenger seat of Harry’s Aston Martin. The much-loved car was Harry’s private transportation when he wasn’t travelling on Kingsman business, and this time of year, he liked to keep the cab drivers out of his business as much as possible. Chester King had eyes and ears everywhere, and seemed to take a particular delight in finding flaws with which to punish the Knights that displeased him.

Harry had been on the receiving end of that displeasure, and while it wasn’t pleasant for him, it was doubly so for Merlin. Merlin was not considered one of the Knights; he was barely considered Staff by Chester King. What was unpleasant for Harry was hellish for his partner. But then, that always seemed to be the case.

Merlin, alias of Callum Craig, was an orphan. He had no parents, no living blood relatives. His mother passed and he was delivered to an orphanage in Glasgow, and he grew up wary of the world he worked in. He had been a candidate for Gawain when Harry had met him – and indeed, had nearly broken Callum’s nose – but in the end, he’d been punished for overreaching what Chester had considered his station. He’d been snapped up by their previous Merlin when Callum had refused to aim a pistol at his animals, and had been cut from the Knight selection. Instead, he was gobbled up by the tech department for his brilliant mind, his quick hands, and his ever hungry need to learn.

Eventually, he stepped into the role of Kingsman’s quartermaster, but it never merited the respect from the other Knights and even Arthur that Harry felt Callum deserved. They treated him like a tool, to be discarded like all the others. It had been a truth Merlin had seen from the start of his and Harry’s acquaintance, and it had never really sat well with Harry, no matter the grace with which Merlin seemed to accept it.

They’d known from their first steps into the organization that attachment wasn’t encouraged, and relationships were as a rule actively discouraged. This was doubly so for them; Harry had seen the curl of Arthur’s lip as he’d sent Knights out on missions that required same-sex honey pots. It wasn’t out of the question for a Knight to seduce his way into intel or to kill a target, but it was supposed to be out of the realm of normal predilection. You were supposed to use it as a tool in your tool box. You weren’t supposed to enjoy it, to seek comfort in it.

In an organization where relationships were discouraged, what he and Merlin had was somehow doubly censured.

Perhaps that was where the disconnect between being a Kingsman and being Harry Hart began. He’d never really examined it closely, nor had he gone out of his way to dissect himself in that manner. His tumultuous relationship with Merlin began and ended behind closed doors – doors that remained open the barest bit, without either of their knowledge, to someone that knew where to look.

He and Merlin had settled into something that was far more comfortable than it had been years previously. The sting that Rhodes had left behind was fading, each time they got time to themselves such as now. Their fellow agents, James Spencer and Martin Gainsborough – Lancelot and Percival respectively – seemed to have helped in that manner.

Together, they’d formed a small pocket of active defiance in the Kingsman ranks, becoming friendly and relying on each other in times of trouble where Arthur might not have sent rescue, or even seemed to be actively sabotaging their return chances. Over the years, they’d gotten much better at toeing the line in public and keeping their private lives just that – private. From everyone, even Kingsman.

It was to be assumed that if one were using Kingsman resources, someone would relay the information to Chester. Not Merlin, surely, unless he was required to report it, but someone. They’d sussed out a couple of years ago that several of the cab drivers were hired specifically for their tight-lipped behavior, but also as informants for Arthur to keep an eye on his wayward agents. In retaliation, they’d eschewed all transportation from Kingsman over the holidays, preferring their own vehicles – which Merlin regularly inspected for listening devices and other such countermeasures.

It never failed to relax Harry, going for a long drive with Merlin in his vehicle, letting the weight of being constantly watched fall slowly off his shoulders as he turned out of London proper and took them into the countryside. They snatched peace where they could, holding on with grips that would break bone in reality.

Christmas time was one such time. Kingsman rules from its inception had declared long ago that agents must maintain an air of secrecy from their families. Knights who wished to do so could have their demise faked, so as to cut off all contact. Some agents preferred to remain in contact, giving their families whatever story would suffice to satisfy their curiosity. Kingsman’s customer service department was trained to handle any queries into a Knight’s personal life with grace and aplomb. Sometimes the best defense was hiding in plain sight. Family men were rarely suspicious – not like single men with no living relatives at all.

But this meant that agents might be expected to spend the holidays with family.

Knights accrued time off, of course. Injury, mental strain, and even emotional strain was considered as a basis for time from the field – and Morgana had fought viciously for those measures to be put into place. They were Knights, not machines.

Chester had responded by blocking off two weeks of time off for Knights who wished it. This time off consisted of a few days before Christmas itself, Christmas Eve, and Christmas day. Agents were expected to return to work right after New Years’ celebrations. The store face of Kingsman operated until acceptable closing times on the twenty-second, and remained closed until Boxing Day. Regular staff, however, hardly worked the irregular hours that a Knight would – barring specialties like medical staff or drivers.

It ended up being one of his more progressive decisions, Harry had to admit. Work during the Christmas season was gruesome, but also slow. While there were a handful of missions being worked at any given time, most of it was intelligence gathering. Rather than having a roster of restless killing machines together under one roof, Arthur had opted to cut them loose to their own devices, provided all end of year reports had been filed with Central.

Even the notoriously tardy Galahad was known to put in his final reports by the second week of December at the latest. Barring a mission that had run over, it was rare to see any knight give up rare time off that wasn’t punctuated by injury. Arthur himself shuttered his office on the eighteenth and returned on the third, which fed the rumors that he had a family of some sort, though Harry had never bothered to dig too deeply. The idea that Chester King had accrued relatives that hadn’t tried to poison him was a concept he wasn’t quite ready to accept.

However, it had afforded Harry, Merlin, James and Martin a rather unique opportunity. Changing locations each year had kept much of the scrutiny off of their little group, and without fail since 1993, Harry and Merlin had been meeting for Christmas. Martin had joined them shortly after, and once James had joined them, by 2002 it had become a tradition. Already feeling pent up by the approaching holidays, they had all come to the conclusion that this was the perfect time to unwind, and to share each other’s company. An almost blissful two weeks of nothing but the pleasure of company that he enjoyed sharing his time with, Merlin especially.

It had evolved into a game, of sorts, at least for Harry and James. How much could they slip past Arthur without hinting that what they were doing was frowned upon by the organization? Martin was more discreet, of course; he’d long ago stopped announcing what he was thinking to people he couldn’t trust. Merlin had already developed a workflow that fed constant reports from Central, delivering work he’d finished over the last month that would be looked for before Boxing Day. It was enough to keep Arthur mollified, and off their trail.

It was enough, and it would carry them into the new year, as it had last year. They snatched at what peace they could, and Harry counted it as a marked improvement on earlier years spent outlasting the holiday with a bottle of scotch and a dimmed town home.

Now, traffic seemed to be letting up, and Harry wove through the busy streets, the car purring through the slush of snow that had fallen over the last week. Merlin made a noise of confusion as Harry passed his usual street, opting instead to join the line of cars making their way toward Heathrow.

“Harry?” he asked, but Harry just smiled, his hand sliding from the wheel of the Aston Martin to rest on Merlin’s knee. It was joined by one of Merlin’s hands, and Harry turned his so that they were palm to palm and he could lace his fingers with his partner’s.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Harry said, humming softly with the quiet carols coming from his radio. “A small change, but one that will be most agreeable, I’m hoping.”

The feel of Merlin’s thumb stroking along his seemed to signal his agreement, and Harry continued them on their route. He pushed them through Heathrow, and Merlin’s brows knit as they approached the hangar that housed spare Kingsman jets – ones that were either too big for the Estate’s launcher or were simply out for repair. Harry parked inside the doors, letting the engine idle to a stop before he got out, shifting around to the other side to get the door for Merlin.

“Harry, what’s all this, we’ll be seen—”

“We won’t,” Harry replied, nodding at where he’d spotted James and Martin loading supplies onto the smaller of the Lear jets that currently occupied the hangar. “The staff have gone home for holiday, and if they should see us, they know we’re not up to anything odd.”

“That’s right,” James called from where he had been hauling boxes aboard. “Hullo, Harry, Merlin.”

“You’re late,” Martin called, poking his head out of the door of the jet.

“Traffic,” Harry replied smoothly. “An unavoidable obstacle of the holidays, Martin.”

“Not if you plan appropriately.” Martin’s smart reply came as he ducked back inside the jet.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he turned to Merlin. “Still have your bag?”

“I do,” Merlin said, giving Harry an appraising look. “Since when have we gotten permission to go on joy rides in Kingsman jets, and why wasn’t I alerted?”

“It’s not a joy ride,” James replied brightly. He popped out of the jet, down the stairs, and scooped a couple of cases from the wayside. “We’re on _official business_.”

“We are, are we?” Merlin said. He fixed Harry with an arch look. “Care to explain?”

Harry shot James a look, but his counterpart only flashed him a grin and hauled his cases up the stairs.

“We’ve been tasked with testing Kingsman equipment in winter temperatures,” Harry hedged.

“…what equipment?” Merlin asked. “All of our gear functions perfectly in temperatures up to negative forty Celsius.”

Harry shifted, carefully. “I might have fibbed.”

“Might have?” Merlin asked. His voice had gone smooth, as though Merlin were prepared to lose his temper. Harry was aware of the danger even as he felt the brogue of Merlin’s voice roll down his spine and send electricity through him.

“I may have hinted that you were working on something big, and would need testing done before the New Year’s melt rendered the data impossible to get without scheduling training exercises in more remote locations.” Harry shrugged. “Arthur seemed impressed by the initiative, and signed off on the resources required.”

“You…what?” Merlin inhaled. “And what will happen when I return from whatever adventure you have planned, with nothing to show for our efforts?”

“Surely you have something you’ve been working on,” Harry said. “You always do—”

“That’s hardly the point, isn’t it, Harry?” Merlin swept his hand toward the Lear. “Is this really necessary?”

“I—” Harry inhaled. “I’m sorry. It happened so suddenly. I took it and ran with it, and it wasn’t what it should have been. You’d have missed the assignment, being away from Central, so I took it upon myself to gather a team to test the materials. James is considered our best long-range agent. Martin is best in hand to hand. I’m considered most senior, so Arthur assumed I would be leading the expedition.”

“And, of course, I in my brilliance will have developed something by the time we got back to give backbone to your lies,” Merlin said. “We can’t come back empty handed.”

Harry rubbed at his face. “It wasn’t well-done of me, I know.”

“You could have at least told me,” Merlin said. “I’ve a few things I’m working on, but they’re hardly out of the alpha stage. So you’ll have to put that silver tongue to use if nothing comes of it.”

“You’re not angry?” Harry said, his brows rising in surprise.

“Oh, I’m well livid,” Merlin replied. “But seeing as you’re already packed and waiting, I might as well go and let you grovel to make it up to me later. For now, I’m going to need at least six hours uninterrupted time to develop the prototype I need. Which kind of puts a damper on the champagne, James.”

James frowned from where he was standing in the door of the jet, bottle of bubbly and glasses in hand. “Damn.”

“Where are we going?” Merlin asked for what felt like the dozenth time, and Harry relented.

“The Swiss alps,” Harry replied.

“Lovely,” Merlin muttered. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to actually see them eventually.”

He stalked past Harry and up the stairs of the jet, past James who shuffled into the cockpit to avoid him. Harry sighed and went to collect their cases from the boot of his car.

“I think we’ve cocked it up, Galahad,” James said.

“I rather think you’re right,” Harry replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is complete, though the story itself isn't done with. I have a couple more plans based on my prompt list, and we'll likely revisit this scenario. The problem is getting to them. I keep getting interrupted by the real world. Work has been a pain, and I've been getting my schedule jerked around. Hopefully I can straighten this out soon. For now, enjoy. I'm going to try and catch up over the next week or so.
> 
> I keep saying that, and I hate it. Sorry to disappoint, Constant Readers.


	13. Day Thirteen - Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People come and go, sometimes things just...die between them. Other times, they can't survive outside of the circumstances that made them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Thirteen Prompt: Angel

**Michelle Unwin’s flat, London – December 1997**

“I wanted to see how you were,” James said.

Michelle peered at him through the crack in the door. “Go away, James.”

Her face was blotchy and red, her eyes bloodshot from the tears she’d already wept. She was tired, so tired. She was a widow and a single mother to a toddler barely out of swaddling, how did he think she was?

“I know that—” James’s voice died, and he looked away. “I know I can’t be him. But I want to be here for you.”

“You can’t,” she said. Her throat was thick, full of grief that felt like it would suffocate her if she didn’t swallow it back until it made her sick. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Michelle,” he said. The pain in his voice touched her own, like a nerve scraped raw and then doused in salt. “Please.”

“Go away, Mister Spencer,” she said, her voice soft. “I can’t. Not right now. Maybe not ever.”

He pushed a small, wrapped package at her through the crack in the door. “Please just take this, then. My card is there, on the tag. If you need me, call me. Any time of the day or night. I’ll be here in a flash.”

Against her better judgement, she took it, stuffing it in the pocket of the tatty dressing gown she was wearing. James backed off, moving towards the snowy steps.

“Any time,” he repeated and nodded at her, even as she shut the door.

She sighed, and pressed her forehead to the wood of the door. She had no idea what she was going to do. There was no insurance. Lee’s work had been secretive, even as that man…that man had said he was a hero. There was nothing, and their savings, while it had grown exponentially with his time in the Service, had begun to dwindle with funeral expenses. She was reaching the end of her tether, even as she began contacting job services to take up whatever she could to make ends meet.

But James…

James could make things better, a small voice in her head whispered. She could rest, and grieve, for a little while longer. It would be…good for Eggsy to know his godfather, to know people that had known his father.

The small voice was there, but she ignored it, taking a deep breath and going to make a cup of tea and sort out Eggsy’s lunch. The box bounced against her thigh, and she ignored it, focusing on things she had to do, things that broke through the static of her life without her husband.

* * *

**Michelle Unwin’s flat, London – December 1998**

“What’s this, mummy?” Eggsy asked. Chubby fingers prodded at the little wrapped box.

Michelle peered at it over the dinner sat upon the television tray, her feet aching and her back hurting as she cleared yet another double shift at the hotel. She’d spent the workday changing linens, washing floors and bathrooms until her hands were angry, red and chapped and her muscles sang. She was exhausted, but she had enough to get Eggsy some small things for Christmas and keep the lights on – a feat in and of itself when one was struggling. The sting of Lee’s passing was still a sharp one, though not as sharp as the exhaustion.

It was enough, to be numb. To not feel anything but love for her son and the bone deep weariness that would let her sleep alone in a large bed.

It would tide her over through Christmas.

“I don’t know, Eggsy,” she said. “Why don’t you open it?”

She couldn’t recall the package. Maybe she’d packed it up with all the other decorations, the box that Eggsy was currently digging through brought down with some wheedling from her son. She’d put up the tree and now she was all but dozing in front of the telly. Eggsy, bless him, had been quietly playing with the plastic ornaments, decorating the tree in a lopsided, haphazardly fashion.

He tore through the paper, revealing a little white box. Lifting the lid, he gave a delighted noise.

“It’s daddy, mummy!” he said, holding up a little ornament. Michelle felt her heart clench into a fist at the words, even as Eggsy toddled over to show her. A pair of angel wings encircled the little portrait, Lee looking smart in some sort of official uniform. He was clearly being teased by someone, possibly James – the smile he wore was far too sunny and open to be anyone else but either James or herself. It had a blue ribbon to hang it upon the tree.

“It is,” she agreed. “Why don’t…why don’t you go put daddy’s picture up on the tree with the rest of the ornaments?”

He nodded, moving back to his task with the determination only a toddler could muster. She bent and picked up the box. Beneath the lid, there was fastened a card.

_Kingsman Fine Tailors_  
Bespoke Suits and Formal Wear  
_12 Savile Row, Mayfair, London_

On the back, there was James’s name, embossed on the card, with a personal number.

_Call, any time, day or night. I’ll be there in a flash._

There was a bittersweet, almost haunting, swell of love for James Spencer in her chest. She couldn’t rely on him, she knew that. It was worse than living on the grace of the social services programs she had available to her. She couldn’t ask him to support them too.

But he’d tried. He wanted to. That meant more to her now, now that she was in a better state of mind than she had been. She missed him. She missed Lee, and they’d both left a hole in her life and heart, and she missed him. It wouldn’t hurt to reach out, not nearly as much as it did to remain isolated, muffled in her grief as she had been that first year. James had loved Lee, too. It would be like getting a piece of him back. She picked up the cordless house phone, dialing the number on the back.

It rang exactly once.

“ _Complaints department.”_

“Oh,” she said, startled. “I was hoping to speak to Mister Spencer. I was given his card.”

“ _Mister Spencer is away on a fitting. May I take a message? Who may I say is calling?”_

“No…no, that’s all right. I’ll try back sometime later,” she said.

“ _As you wish, madam. I hope we’ve not lost you as a valuable customer.”_

The line disconnected, and she sat there for a long moment. He was busy; of course he was. It made sense. He and Lee had been away far more than they’d been in town. It made sense that he should have more work now that he’d passed the test that had left Lee buried and her with nothing. She was hardly stupid; Lee hadn’t told her everything, but she could guess. It was a world she couldn’t even begin to understand, one that was full of lies and darkness, and it was like staring across a cold chasm.

James was on the other side. Would Lee have been, too? Would she eventually not know her husband, forced into estranged celibacy as he travelled around the world? She couldn’t answer those questions; fate had other plans for Michelle Unwin, and it reminded her when Eggsy tugged her fingers to show her the tree.

She put her thoughts, and Kingsman, away for examination another time.

* * *

**Michelle Unwin’s flat, London – November 2009**

“What’ve you got there, Muggsy?” Dean asked, slouched on the couch as he usually was. He’d been here more and more, cozying up to his mum’s side and worming his way into her good graces.

Eggsy had Opinions about Dean, but in the interest of keeping the peace and making his mother happy, he’d bitten his tongue more times than he could count around the man. Usually it was punctuated with frosty silences, begrudging chores or errands when his mother could cajole him into doing them, but he avoided Dean and his goons when he could.

There was something about Dean that always rubbed Eggsy the wrong way. Perhaps it was the cold way his eyes would get when he drank, or the way his smile was flat, even though he smiled a lot for his mum. Maybe it was the thugs that hung around the flat, the council housing meaning that everyone minded their own business when Eggsy came back with bruises on his ribs and stomach.

(They’d learned not to hit him in the face and avoided tipping off Michelle. Eggsy didn’t want to worry her, either. This was his to deal with.)

Eggsy wrapped his hand around the little portrait. He didn’t want it broken, but it didn’t feel like Christmas without his dad’s picture hanging on the tree.

“Christmas decoration,” he said. Dean grunted, waving him away from the telly. Eggsy tucked it into the back of the tree, where Dean wasn’t likely to notice it.

* * *

**Michelle Unwin’s flat, London – December 2014**

Michelle was glad that Dean was away from the flat when the suited gentleman knocked. She opened the door to find the man on her doorstep, looking far more out of place here than the first time one of these men had visited her. He was tall, with a genial face, blond hair parted neatly to the side.

“Michelle Unwin?” he asked. She nodded.

“My name is Emerson Wallace,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Ah…yes,” she said. She stepped to the side, letting him past her into the cluttered kitchen. He set his umbrella just inside the door, unbuttoning his coat as he sat in one of her chairs. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Ah, no, thank you,” he said. He was somber, for someone with a face that seemed like he smiled a lot.

There was a cry from the bassinet as Daisy’s nap was disturbed. She moved to the baby and lifted her, shushing her with a rocking motion.

Emerson brightened as he spotted Daisy. “Oh, she’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, unsure as to why that compliment should bring her so much pleasure. He sounded genuinely happy for her, and happy to see a child. “How can I help you, Mister Wallace?”

“Ah, right,” Emerson said. “I’ve got something for you, from an old friend.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled a thick envelope from his breast pocket, setting it on the table for her. Michelle stared at the embossed golden K on the envelope for a long moment.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to open it,” Emerson replied. “May I?”

He held out his hands for Daisy, and Michelle hesitated before she passed the baby over to Emerson. The man was a natural, despite her misgivings. He tucked her against his chest and cooed at her, one of Daisy’s hands wrapping around his index finger as he spoke to her.

She picked up the envelope and broke the seal. A strong, confident hand had penned the letter beneath her fingers.

_Mrs. Unwin,_

_It is with great sadness that I write you today. A mutual friend of ours, James Spencer, has passed away quite suddenly. He had no real family, save his sister and niece, but he mentioned you often and with a mixture of great fondness and great regret. He has stated in his will that you, as well as your son Gary Unwin, are to receive a sum of inheritance, to be discussed at a later time; his executor will be in touch with you forthwith._

_I am writing to give you the option to say your goodbyes, as there will be a service held this Saturday. I’ve enclosed directions, and should you wish, a number to call for a car that will be ‘round to fetch you and yours to attend. It will be available to you for a drop off as well. I hope that aside from this sad news, this letter finds you in good health, and know that I grieve his passing as well._

_Sincerely,_  
_C. Craig  
_ _Kingsman Tailors_

Her fingers crinkled the heavy paper.

“He’s dead?” she asked.

Emerson nodded slowly. “He passed a week ago. It was—”

“Sudden,” she said.

Seventeen years. She’d wasted seventeen years. She could have called, more than once. She could have reached out. She could have—

Done anything other than live her life in a bubble.

She sniffled. “I see. Will you be going?”

“To the service?” he asked. “Yes. He was a friend of mine, too.”

“What was he like?” she asked.

The abrupt question seemed to startle Emerson. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“James was always…cheerful,” she said. “Ready for anything. He was the life of the party but when he looked at you, you were—”

“The only one in the room,” Emerson replied. “Yes. He was like that.”

“You must miss him terribly,” she said.

“I do. As do many of us. It’s like the sun’s been snuffed out.”

She nodded, watching him bounce Daisy on his shoulder for a moment.

“I’ll have to at least say goodbye,” she said.

* * *

It had started snowing. She crunched across the graveyard, down the carefully salted paths toward where the small knot of mourners stood around a lonely gravestone. It was cold, and she recalled that he hated being cold. She tucked her scarf more securely around her neck, her umbrella up and over her head to keep most of the snow off of her. She felt out of place, taking in all the well-dressed mourners as she stopped at the bottom of the hill beneath a tree.

She wouldn’t feel right getting closer, not with so much money in one place. They might think she was looking for a handout. She could just barely hear the minister reading the eulogy, and she lost herself in the thrum of his voice, her fingers brushing the bark of the tree.

James was gone. The cold sinking into her bones was an echo of what she’d felt, so long ago, when Lee had passed. She inhaled, closing her eyes as her breath floated about her in a cloud. The snow began to fall heavier as the minister wrapped things up, and the mourners began to descend the hill, one by one, forming knots of people as they walked.

A posh woman led away by a young blonde woman made her double take. That must be his sister; the thought was cemented by the woman’s face. It was an echo of James’s own, though more feminine. Michelle ached for her. How could she not? She’d loved James too. They were connected, though they didn’t know it.

There was one person left, long after the others had gone. He stood, his shoulders stiff and his hands clenched at his side, heedless of the snow that was gathering on his bare head, dusting his hair with thick white flakes as he stared down into the hole where the casket rested. Michelle waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to move.

Just as she was talking herself into going to speak to him, the young blonde woman from before stepped past her, her eyes fixed on the man on the hill. Gently, she took his arm, and he seemed to come back to himself, if only to avoid worrying her. She helped him down the hill, though she realized as they got closer that he was young; so young that he might be a couple of years her junior. He was dry eyed, though his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, as though he’d already wrung his grief out. He stumbled, leaning heavily on the woman who held his arm.

He didn’t seem to notice her, nor Michelle dithering beneath the tree, or much of anyone else, though the woman at his side spoke soothingly as she guided him to the car. As they drove away, Michelle forced her frozen limbs to move and climbed the hill.

She dropped the little bouquet she’d purchased on her way into the hole in the ground. It landed on the casket and bounced to the side, away from the lavish display of roses and lilies that covered the top half. It came to rest at the foot of the grave, and she reached out, touching the gravestone.

* * *

“Where have you been?” Dean asked, taking in her late arrival.

“Out running some errands,” she said, her voice forced into brisk brightness by the need to not disappoint him. She shucked her coat and gloves, hanging them up.

“Well, hurry up with supper,” he called from his place on the couch. “Starving.”

She stopped, her breathing ratcheting up like a rabbit’s, but she could only nod, reaching for the phone. “I’ll order something.”

“So long as it gets done,” he muttered.

* * *

**Kingsman Estate, Scotland – December 2018**

James looked up from where he was decorating the tree Harry and Merlin’s library. It had been unconsciously dubbed the ‘family’ tree, and James was taking more care to make it look good. The staff had been enlisted on the others, but this one, well.

It was special.

Which was why he took notice when Eggsy withdrew something from his pocket.

“What’ve you got there, Galahad?” he asked.

“Heirloom,” Eggsy said. He glanced at James, worrying his lower lip. “Is it okay?”

“Let’s see it?” he asked.

Eggsy hesitated, then handed it over. James ran his fingers over the carved wings of the ornament. He hadn’t seen it in years, but the sight of Lee’s face made something bittersweet well up in his chest. He lifted the ornament by the ribbon, a new red one, and passed it back to Eggsy.

“Considering I made it, I don’t see why not,” he said.

“You made this?” Eggsy asked.

“I did,” James said. “I carved the frame and took the picture. It was a keepsake for your mother.”

“She passed it on to me,” he said. “This year.”

“Then it’s fitting it came home,” James said. “Go on, then, pick a spot.”

Eggsy placed it, front and center on the branches of the tree. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas without dad getting a spot on the tree.”

“I agree,” James said.

“Did you know him well?” Eggsy said.

The question made James almost backpedal; there was no way to quantify what Lee and Michelle Unwin had meant to him, especially to their son.

His godson.

Instead, he offered Eggsy a sad smile. “There are a lot of days I think the wrong Lancelot was selected. Your dad was amazing.”

“You sound like you have stories,” Eggsy said, his smile going sly. “Tell me?”

“Of course,” James said. “Go fetch us some eggnog and some of those cookies, and I’ll get the fire going again.”

Eggsy nodded and disappeared out the door. James turned, finding the portrait with ease among the greenery.

“You’d be proud of him, I think,” James said. “Lord knows it wasn’t through any influence of mine. Harry was always better at that sort of thing.”

He dropped his eyes and moved for the woodpile to build up the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find myself coming back to Michelle, a lot. I think she had way more potential as a character than Kingsman gave her. Then again, Kingsman gives a lot of its female characters short shrift. Even for being a satire, they still can't manage to get that right. Slowly working on more of these, but I'm so behind.
> 
> I'm sorry for the wait.


	14. Day Fourteen - Nutmeg*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, found family is best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 14: Nutmeg
> 
> The Cop!AU belongs to Bearfeathers. I'm merely borrowing it for a bit of Christmas cheer.

Merlin had always thought that the building he lived in was a little strange. Not only was it shared almost exclusively by police officers and their families, but it was more of a communal space than anywhere else he’d ever lived. There were electronic locks on the doors, passed through with key cards, of course. Residents had their own locked doors, but the apartments were roomy and enjoyable.

There was also a communal kitchen and recreational area, too. While each apartment had its own kitchen, there was a cooking space and a large sitting area that called to a lot of his coworkers who lived in the building. He’d learned later that it had been intended to be a halfway house but it had been retrofitted into apartments when the project had been sidelined due to corruption. The city had snapped up the project, finished out the apartments, and then rented them out to officers in his precinct.

The bottom floor had room for the two largest apartments, the common room, and the kitchen. Not quite big enough to be industrial sized, it was large enough that it could be considered enough to feed many people at once. The common room housed a large television, something everyone had chipped in for, and bean bags as well as a couple of lumpy couches that were just comfortable to curl up on, if not to doze on. There was a small play area for Martin’s brother Mickey and Eggsy to romp in, filled with toys and a building table, but for now things were tidied and put away as Michelle had them in the apartment, getting them lunch.

Merlin had moved in, thinking that it was odd that they all lived in this odd sort of harmony punctuated with long hours and often long stretches where they barely spoke about anything but work.

Now he felt a part of a thriving community, even if most of the officers were single. Lee Unwin and his wife Michelle lived on the ground floor, across from Captain Thomas Brampton and his wife, Lucy. James Spencer lived above Lee and Michelle, taking the vacant apartment above them when his roommate Lee had gotten married two years ago. Merlin himself lived next door to James, above Thomas and Lucy. Martin Gainsborough, a crown prosecutor, had taken the apartment above James, and above him…lived Harry Hart.

The detective inspector had been cordial, even friendly, when Merlin had met him. To be fair, he’d fallen off a roof last year while putting up Christmas lights and might have been concussed, but his attitude toward Merlin hadn’t changed. The fact was, if there wasn’t overtime to be done at the precinct, it was often that he and Harry could be found in the common room sharing a drink and chatting. Merlin liked to think he knew the man well, but it might have been colored by his attraction to the Detective Inspector.

Harry was charming, with a quick smile and a quicker wit, a voice that was posh without somehow becoming condescending, and handsome. Merlin found it to be a matter of course that he should be attracted to Harry, but he knew that distraction in the workplace like that would only lead to heartbreak. Merlin, as a rule, didn’t date coworkers.

Harry wasn’t exactly a coworker; they worked different departments – he was forensics and Harry was a detective, but the principle stood, at least as far as Merlin was concerned. And so, he’d gone about his life, nursing feelings for Harry, keeping them carefully pushed into a locked drawer of his life that he couldn’t access. It was only in the deep watches of the night that he allowed himself to daydream.

He shook himself as he let himself into the building. No sense in getting melancholy about something that would never be. Instead, it was Christmas, and he had things to do.

It was cold outside, but Merlin had groceries for the common room and a mission, and he would warm up soon enough. It was warm, inviting, and they’d decorated for Christmas, with a proper tree set up in the corner and a pile of gifts beneath it, from one resident to another. Mostly for the children – James adored playing Santa, and he often joked that it was the only way you could get Martin in his lap. Jokes aside, it meant quite a lot to Eggsy, Mickey, and James’s niece Roxy, who came to visit for Christmas. Merlin wasn’t about to deny them Christmas, and neither was anyone else.

James was making eggnog today, and if last year’s was anything to go by, they’d need all the beanbags strewn about the common room. There was a fire burning merrily in the grate, and Merlin slipped his shoes off at the door of the common room, placing them on the shelf that Thomas had built for them sometime last spring.

Christmas cookies were hardly his forte, but he had a feeling simple sugar cookies would go over well, and he’d bought a couple of the premade mixes for chocolate chip as well. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. He set up his supplies, got the large double oven pre-heated, and set about making his mixture. It was early in the afternoon still; he’d taken a half-day to get this done, which meant the others would be by later, after work.

He was joined by James after a while, and they spent a companionable time, bumping past each other as they went about their tasks. Merlin used James as a taste tester and decorator, James had Merlin try a nip of the egg nog before he stashed the heavily alcoholic brew in the back of the fridge, with a non-alcoholic variant for the kids – and Martin. (While the crown prosecutor wouldn’t deny it, he was still touchy that alcohol affected him so. More than a nip would have him reeling, and so most of the time there was a less alcoholic option the others would find or prepare for him.)

By the time the others began trickling in, the smell of cookies had permeated the building. Mickey and Eggsy were first, trailed by Michelle. She’d brought in a tray of fudge she’d put together over the last week, setting it on the folding table James and Merlin had set up when they got in. She accepted the glass of egg nog, as well as the kiss to her cheek from James.

The boisterous children were punctuated by the door opening and admitting Martin. He’d changed from his suit, opting for a dark cable knit and trousers, and James wandered his way, another glass in hand. Thomas and Wes blew into the building soon after, along with Lucy. Wes had been a resident until he’d married and moved out, joining his wife Kalpana at her flat, since it was larger. Merlin had moved into his old flat. Wes had Kalpana in tow, along with their daughter, Garima. She wiggled to be let down out of her father’s arms and made a beeline for the boys playing in the corner. Lee joined them soon enough, kissing his wife hello and stealing her eggnog.

The hum of conversation grew, laughter and good cheer joining the dishes set out on the tables. As new people joined the gathering, more and more food appeared. Mince pies, small sandwiches, more sweets, until the table was groaning with it. The smell of cooked food, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg filled the air. It was…home.

It was strange to think of it like that, but it was. For Merlin, who had no real family of his own, he’d found one in the strangest of places. There was someone missing, and James didn’t make a secret that he’d noticed Merlin glancing at the door. He refilled Merlin’s mug with eggnog.

“He’s working late,” James said. “Said he wanted to wrap up the reports before he came. He’ll be here.”

Merlin nodded and took another sip of his eggnog. “Very like him.”

“He wanted to be done early, but there was some evidence he needed to include,” James said. “He’ll be here.”

Merlin was thankful for the reassurance, even if he were exasperated that James was trying to make him ‘admit’ that the crush he had on Harry was reciprocated. It was a long-standing unspoken rule between himself and James – he wasn’t about to admit how he felt about Harry, not without some clear sign the man felt the same way. He was content with how things were, even though sometimes the air between them felt electric with something more, something they both anticipated. Merlin had long ago chalked it up to his overactive imagination.

Forty-five minutes later, however, Harry appeared. Snow dusted the packages in his hands, but he set them down and shed his coat and shoes. His scarf and hat ruffled his hair, sending his curls into an untidy sprawl that had always made Merlin want to run his fingers through it. He looked tired, but satisfied. He must have finished up with what he was doing in good time.

There was a chorus of teasing, as he’d made it a habit to be fashionably late everywhere except work, though this time it was in good nature to tease him for it. He bore more gifts, stacking them beneath the tree for unwrapping later. James sidled up to him, plopped a cup of eggnog into his hand, and then all but shoved him in Merlin’s direction.

“Earlier than last year,” Merlin said, hiding a smile with a sip from his own cup. He was feeling loose, but he’d learned early on that you pace yourself with James’s eggnog. There was a pleasant flush to his cheeks, and he was warm and floaty, but hardly out of his own control. It was just enough.

Harry gave him a faux sour look, then smiled. “Well, I had to pick up the last of Eggsy’s gifts. Otherwise he and Mickey’s wouldn’t have been even and it would have been chaos.”

Merlin chuckled and saluted him with the mug. “You’re far more accommodating than anyone else about that.”

Mickey had developed a strong idea of right and wrong from his brother, but he’d also started manifesting that with toddler demands, and it had been an…interesting few months. When Mickey felt that something wasn’t fair, he was rather vocal about it. He’d worked hard to earn the nickname ‘Picky Mickey’ among the adults, though it was more in exasperation rather than any sort of malice.

“It’s…worth it,” Harry replied. “They’re happy.”

Merlin nodded, watching the kids at play. “They are. I’m glad.”

“What about you?” Harry asked.

“What about me?” Merlin echoed.

“Are you happy?” Harry asked. It was sudden, and there was an intensity in his gaze that left Merlin just a little breathless.

“I mean, I suppose I am,” Merlin said. He nodded to the knot of chatting adults seated around the television, a Christmas movie on the television adding to the background noise.

“You just…seem to separate yourself sometimes, during times like these,” Harry said. “If we’ve made you uncomfortable—”

“No, no,” Merlin said. “It’s nothing like that. I’ve just…never had anything like this before? There’s a lot going on, but it’s, it’s good, really.”

“Good,” Harry breathed. “The last thing I want is for you to not feel like you’re wanted. Wanted here, I mean.”

“I don’t feel like that,” Merlin said. “I like being here, with you.”

Harry brightened at that, and Merlin didn’t feel the need to clarify. It was enough, sharing a companionable silence, drinking eggnog and listening to the others have a good time.

“Happy Christmas, Merlin,” Harry said. They stood shoulder to shoulder, warmth radiating between them as they watched their family at play.

“The happiest,” Merlin agreed. It was enough. It was more than enough. As far as Merlin was concerned, it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't bring myself to bring them all the way together - that's a story for Bearfeathers to tell here, and everything I could do would be a pale comparison. Trust me, though, they do get together, and I felt that there wasn't enough Merlahad in this. (There still isn't, but I'm working on that.)
> 
> Hoping to double up for the next couple of days and get caught up. My apologies, Constant Readers.


	15. Day Fifteen - Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are funny things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 Prompt: Reunion

**Statesman HQ, Louisville, Kentucky – December 2016**

Harry looked up as the door shirred open, admitting Ginger Ale. She’d introduced herself as such, but Harry knew that her name actually was Ginger. She was kind enough, in her way; he still dreaded the examinations and endless questions. Still, she was far nicer than the dour looking man with the moustache. He had been a dark cloud on Harry’s stay at this facility, glowering at him from his spot at the door when they’d had Harry under observation in the spring.

There had been talk of his ‘reversion’, getting back to the man he was supposed to be. Perhaps it was a part of his therapy, but Harry didn’t feel anything missing. He was content as he was, though restless in his little cell. It was for his own protection, they’d told him, as he languished between these four tiny walls.

He had known it was spring then, because he’d asked. Now, with the careful counting of months and the brief glimpses of windows outside his doors when they opened, he knew they had to be getting close to December, perhaps even close to Christmas time. It would mark his second year in this facility.

Harry didn’t remember much of his first year. He came to consciousness with Ginger bent over him, examining his eye. He’d been shot in the head, he’d been informed. In Kentucky, during a church service.

Something felt off about that, but Harry hadn’t the foggiest idea of why that was. It was strange, perhaps, that he was in Kentucky, though perhaps he was chasing another American species. He was going to be a lepidopterist. That much he could remember.

But why had he been at a church? He was, at best, a lapsed Anglican, who’d seen the church as a duty while schooling, but didn’t have much use for faith outside of that. And from the description of the church, it was someplace he would have really rather avoided. That sort of fire and brimstone preaching had turned him off religion long ago.

He’d given what information he could remember to the staff here, but it didn’t seem like any of it mattered. It hurt to try and think past a certain point, a headache that grew from a pinpoint behind his eyes until it was a dull, aching throb.

Still, he reasoned that if he cooperated with the staff here, they would let him go home, eventually. He was still in rehabilitation, after all. His depth perception had been permanently altered, and he was learning to care for himself again.

He was…older now. His face was lined in the mirror, his sandy curls going grey. The light behind his eyes hadn’t died, but…now it was a singular flame, the other ruined socket covered by a black silk patch. He turned his head as Ginger approached, keeping his good eye on her.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said. “Have you had breakfast?”

“I have, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “More tests today?”

“Not today,” she said with a small smile. “It’s Christmas Eve. I came to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Oh!” Harry sat back a little on his bed. “I hadn’t realized. Happy Christmas.”

“I thought I should get you a little something, so I asked for permission.” She handed him some small wrapped parcels, and he took them, setting them to the side for the moment.

“I didn’t…get you anything. My apologies.”

She smiled at him a little wider. “You don’t have to worry about that now, we’re working on getting you better, and that’s a fine gift. But I thought some of these might bring back some memories, maybe?”

She handed him some Christmas crackers, a pile of about six, the paper adorned with Father Christmas dressed as a cowboy. Harry had to chuckle, holding the paper in his hands.

“These are lovely, where ever did you find them in America?”

“I had to make some,” she admitted. “There aren’t that many places that carry them here.”

“A shame,” Harry said. “Would you like one?”

“Well, I made them for you.”

“Yes, but it’s more fun when you share them,” he said. “Even Father used to break one open at table on Christmas Eve.”

She relented and took one, crinkling the paper in her fingers. “All right, show me how it’s done.”

He laughed softly, pulling gently on the ends of the cracker until it popped. Inside was a paper crown, a slip of paper with a handwritten joke, and a couple of small candies. Harry placed the crown upon his head, letting it sit lopsided with a crooked grin at her.

Ginger laughed and pulled on her own cracker, letting it pop and retrieving her own paper crown. She pulled the slip of paper from her cracker, grimacing.

“Oh, I’d forgotten how bad these jokes were,” she said, laughing.

“That’s the other half of the fun,” Harry said. He popped a piece of candy in his mouth. “Out with it, then, let’s see how bad they are.”

 _“What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in a chimney?_ ” Ginger made a face. “Claustrophobia—oh man, that’s bad even by my standards, and I love puns.”

Harry laughed, something low in his throat. “It was pretty gruesome. Let’s see…”

He peered down at the little paper in his hand.

“Knock, knock.”

“Oh, no, here we go,” Ginger groaned. “Who’s there?”

“Arthur,” Harry said.

“Arthur who?”

“Arthur…Arthur…” His mouth went dry, his hands shaking so he could barely read. He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, brought by the silent, fluttering wings of butterflies in his peripheral vision. “Arthur any more mince pies left?”

“Harry?” Ginger asked, but her voice was far away, as though she were speaking from down a long tunnel. His ears were stuffed with cotton, his vision wavering.

He could, if he tried to push through the pain, almost remember. Flashes of something. Cold. Was he in a freezer? Who was the man sitting across from him? Were they drinking in a freezer? Why?

Mistletoe, green in his hand, little white berries tantalizing as he dangled it over someone’s head. Hazel eyes, the color of new green shoots in the snow, intense in their want. Moonlight streaming across a muscular back, hands coming to rest on his waist, in his hair, pressing him onto his back until he was breathless, his eyes clouded.

Pain bloomed along his left eye, throbbing as the headache worsened. He couldn’t see who it was. He could only remember the way they made him feel. Singularly wanted, cared for, home—

_Harry. I love you._

It was important. He didn’t know why, but it was. This feeling, this need to grasp something that it was slipping away, it was important but also _familiar_. It was important. It was—

“Harry?”

He opened his eye. When had he gotten onto his back? He blinked up at Ginger, the lights far too bright in his room.

“I—”

“You’ve had a seizure,” she said, gently. Her voice was soft, as though she were afraid to alarm him. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“Kentucky,” Harry said. His voice was hoarse, full of unshed tears. Grief, something hot and angry and melancholy welled up inside him, burning him from the inside out. He could choke on it. “I want to go home.”

“I know you do, Harry,” she said. He could hear the regret in her voice, his own disappointment at her ‘we’ll see’ tone. “We’ll do a wellness check in a week and see where you are. We can talk about it then.”

Harry knew that arguing was useless. He nodded, allowing her to help him up off the padded floor and onto the platform that served as his bed.

“Rest, I’m going to get my kit and check on you. Don’t try to move, you might end up more disoriented. Lee!”

The younger man Harry had seen a few times stuck his head into the room. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Stay with Harry. I need my kit. Make sure he doesn’t seize again.” He nodded, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall.

Harry let his head rest on the pillow. His breathing was deep and even, but the anger inside him wasn’t. He felt jagged and snapped into shards, pieces of himself that flayed him open to the bone when he tried to put them back together.

“You all right there, fella?” Lee asked.

“Peachy,” Harry snapped. “Happy fucking Christmas, indeed.”

Lee fell silent, but Harry could feel him watching him.

He closed his eye, trying to see the face of the person who loved him. It eluded him like a popped soap bubble, gone once it had fled, leaving only the residue of regret behind.

He would know them if he saw them. He was sure of it. Nothing could make him feel like _that_ and leave no trace behind.

* * *

**Kingsman Estate, Scotland – December 2018**

Merlin smiled at Harry from across the room. It was a shared library, but Harry would share it with no other. Merlin rose to greet him, but Harry simply pulled Merlin into his arms. The embrace turned into a long, rocking movement, Harry holding onto Merlin like he was the port in Harry’s storm.

“Harry?” Merlin’s voice was muffled, tucked against his shoulder, and Harry relented, letting Merlin pull back and look him in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t…know,” Harry said. “I needed you.”

“You have me,” Merlin said. He reached up, cupping Harry’s face. “Harry. I love you.”

Harry let out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Merlin pressed his lips to Harry’s, Harry’s eye slipping closed as Merlin kissed him. It was a slow, lingering thing, full of touches along his sides, Merlin’s hands mapping him out in exquisite detail, Harry floating in the sensation of being wanted, being whole—

Being home.

Merlin broke away, looking almost as dazed as Harry felt, both of them leaning a bit on the bookshelf for strength.

“I love you,” Harry whispered.

“I know,” Merlin said. He guided Harry to the small sofa, helping him settle in, his head on Merlin’s lap. “Tell me about it?”

Harry shook his head. “Will you read to me, instead?”

Merlin nodded, his gaze fond. “Of course. We have time.”

If they didn’t, Harry decided as Merlin brought up the book they’d been sharing on his spectacles and let his brogue fill the library, well…

He was Arthur. He could make time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen down. Gotta keep up the pace, or I'll be late. One more tonight, I think. Then more tomorrow. I really need to start these in like, October, haha.
> 
> Lesson learned.
> 
> Amnesiac Harry makes me sad, but also I want to do more with him. Soon, perhaps.


	16. Day Sixteen - Decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>     
>         _Every argument, every word we can't take back
>     'Cause with all that has happened
>     I think that we both know the way that this story ends
>     
>     -- Marshmello & Bastille, 'Happier'_
>       
>     
>     
>     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 16: Decorations

**Statesman HQ, Kentucky – December 2013**

Ginger could see Jack approaching in the shine of the ornaments, and she frowned. She’d been decorating the tree in her office because the deliberation on a new Statesman agent was something she couldn’t sit in on, even though she’d put her name in the hat.

It wouldn’t be kind to herself to sit there while they talked about her qualities, either, she had decided, stringing the garland along the tree. It was almost done, the silver artificial tree done up in green and blue baubles, something she did every year to bring some cheer to the tech department.

The door opened, and she swallowed, bracing herself.

“Ginger,” Jack called.

“Almost done,” she said, injecting her voice with false enthusiasm. Jack didn’t look happy; that could be for any number of reasons, though the main one likely had to do with her. He’d shot down her suggestion that she be made a field agent so many times, it was an old dance by this point.

She turned away from the tree after fussing with the garland one last time. “What do you think?”

“You already know what I think, Ginger—” He stopped, realizing she meant the tree. “Oh. Uh, it looks real nice.”

He cleared his throat, cutting his eyes away from her. This was a fight as old as her tenure here. She was…tired. Tired of the fighting, the arguments spanning from something minor to something that would affect her career. Jack Daniels was prickly, prone to outbursts of anger and negativity, but she’d seen how kind he could be, as well. He was a complicated, difficult man.

She wouldn’t stop trying to understand him, as it was a part of her job, but it was also…exhausting.

“Are they ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Come with me.”

To her surprise, he offered his arm. She took it, and they walked to the elevators in a pensive silence.

“You made some good points,” he said, as they waited for it to arrive at their floor and take them up to the meeting room.

She blinked at her own reflection in the polished elevator doors. That was new. “They’re the same points I’ve been making since I asked to be promoted.”

“Yeah, I just—I started listenin’, I guess.” He offered her a shrug. “You’ve always been smart.”

“Jack Daniels, was that a compliment?” she asked.

“Don’t go readin’ into it or nothin’,” he muttered.

The elevator doors shirred open, and they stepped in. The bump of the start of their ascent had her leaning against him, tall and warm, and she hesitated to move away for just a moment. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Snow was falling as they exited in the boardroom. She disengaged from his arm, moving forward to walk on her own two feet. She stopped before Champ, who had been chatting with someone on another line. He said his goodbyes, then tapped the stem of his glasses.

“Ginger, have a seat,” he said.

She let out a breath and pulled out a chair next to him, sitting down.

“How long have you worked for me, here?” he asked.

“Just over a decade, sir.” She nodded, putting her hands in her lap.

“And you’re not happy in Research and Development?” he asked. “This is your sixth application to become a field agent.”

“It’s not that—not that I don’t like what I do as Statesman’s quartermaster,” she said. “I just feel I have more potential and skillsets to bring to field work.”

“Mm,” he said. He took a glass from the table and filled it.

“I didn’t get it, did I?” she asked.

Champ didn’t answer, just slid her a measure of the bourbon.

“I didn’t,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around the glass, but didn’t lift it. “How close was the vote?”

“By a handful, almost the two thirds needed.” He swallowed a sip of his own alcohol, glancing out the window at the fat flakes that drifted past the window. “You’re welcome to try again the next time we have an opening.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to see my agents dead to further my own career,” she said. It came out bitter, coating her tongue in frustration. She left the glass where it was, liquor untouched. “I’d better get back to work. Was there anything else that needed my attention?”

Champ shook his head. “Figured I owed you the courtesy of telling you in person.”

“Thank you,” she said. She gave him a nod, then strode from the boardroom. She didn’t look at Whiskey as she passed, and he cut his eyes away from her.

* * *

“You didn’t tell her you voted for her this time around, did you?” Champ asked once the doors had closed behind Ginger Ale.

Whiskey moved to the table, taking up her abandoned bourbon and taking a sip. “Nope. She’ll hate me, but better she have something to focus that on. Can’t say I don’t deserve it.”

“You got a funny way of showing affection, Jack,” Champ said.

Jack didn’t deny it, but he did let the bourbon roll around his tongue as he contemplated it. “She could do better’n me, and I know it. Besides, heard she and Tequila are a thing. Ain’t a man to go breakin’ things up.”

“Mm,” Champ said. “Well, you’ve cleaned up your act, I ain’t gonna deny it. You’ve seemed better the last couple of months.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Dunno.”

“Keep it up, is all I’m sayin’,” Champ said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is a subject I keep returning to over and over again as well. There's potential there, too, I feel. Maybe I'll get to the rest of it soon.


	17. Day Seventeen - Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees ghosts in everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Advent Prompt 17: Spirit

He sees ghosts in everything.

Normally, this would be brushed off by the idea that having lived as long as he has, doing what he does, would be enough to make anyone see spirits. Or at least be haunted by them. It was something to compartmentalize, to lock away and toss the key somewhere out of reach, to deny the critical self-analysis that would both heal and acknowledge that sort of thing.

Now, though, as snow drifts down from the sky and coats his back garden in white, he can’t help but feel their presence along his spine, the hair rising at the nape of his neck as he stares dully past his reflection and into the dark. His senses, finely tuned to make him deadly, betray him in his solitude, making each aching timber groaning as the house settles and each creak of the floorboard into a potential enemy. The fire is crackling merrily, but it can’t quite chase away the chill that descends on the room this December night.

He is not a man who lives without regret. There is plenty, tucked away into nooks and crannies, designed to bother him the least during his day-to-day tasks, but artful at seeping into memories such as this, when he remains alone with his thoughts and without something before him that requires his attention and the razor-sharp focus he has cultivated over the years.

He can’t remember when he last slept a full eight hours. He needs less sleep than most, these days. He is old, nearing the end of his life, his legacy secure in both his personal and professional life. Now, his retirement is upon him, soon enough to be pushed out by the Council and replaced, the second they get wind his mind is no longer as agile as it once was.

The joke is on them, it’s always been agile, and he’s shown no signs of slowing down, to their dismay. Despite a bum knee and a back that aches when the rain pours down, he’s still the sharp, canny man he’s always been. He sees the world, laid out like a chessboard, and he’s still eight turns ahead of both his allies and his enemies – and they still haven’t caught on to the game.

The one man who might was dead. He knows, because he can feel those eyes on his shoulders, the color of faded denim, sharp as knives but lazy, like he could cut the man open and he wouldn’t think twice about it. Like he would smile to have it done, the same genial expression never changing as the knife slid into him.

He almost wishes he could, without a flinch, have the man back so he could send his guts steaming out onto the plush cream rug beneath his feet, let it soak into the carpet and puddle around the polished leather Oxfords he wore. To take a knee, like he did with many of his kills, and shut those staring eyes with the gentlest of brushes of his thumb.

It was really the only tenderness he deserved, honestly. It’s not his fault he craves more.

He swallows, feeling something rise in the back of his throat, and he drowns it with a sip of liquor from his glass. One of his only vices these days. He’s become more careful. He’s become less of the man he was, more of the man he should have been from the start, more like his mentor had wanted.

A shame his mentor had been one of the first of many necessary casualties. In order to secure his future, he would need to remove his past, and Gaheris had been the first. Slowly, carefully, methodical. So unlike his youthful persona, no one might see it coming.

No one had. No one except the man with the pale eyes.

He had sensed the change, had seen how it warped him. But it hadn’t helped. His path was laid out, his feet locked to it by desire and breeding. The man in question would never understand. He couldn’t, he hadn’t, and so he was made to suffer like the rest.

Still, he stares, the taunting curl of his lip both enraging and comforting to an old man lost in his thoughts.

He takes another long sip of his drink, letting the alcohol blur and silence the ghosts, letting them wink out of existence one by one by one.

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” he mutters to himself. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard.”

Folly, perhaps, but Chester King can allow himself one small bit. It is Christmas, after all.

His glass is empty, and the weight of his soul has eased enough that he can snatch at whatever sleep he would. He calls for his butler to bank the fire and takes himself upstairs to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Chester is well aware that he's a shit person, but he's spent so long justifying itself, there's not really any reasoning or...I guess, character growth that hasn't already happened. Remember, though, that descents into madness can also be growth, just in a negative direction.


	18. Day Eighteen - North Pole*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin makes Harry nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 - North Pole
> 
> *An as yet undefined AU that hasn't been written but has been plenty plotted out. No Kingsman, Harry grows up a rather shy and reserved lepidopterist, and Merlin happens to be a handsome owner of a cafe in the village next to the Spencer family sprawl.

Harry blinked in amusement as he stepped into the café behind James and Roxy. The little space that had been redecorated for the holiday season, done up to look like a corner of Santa’s workshop. There, in a comfortable chair, was the man himself, or—as Harry peered closer—the man that he’d wanted to see.

Merlin was dressed to the nines, complete with his whiskers on, and Roxanne ran to him, only to shriek in glee as he scooped her up and settled her on his knee. Harry stifled a chuckle, hiding his smile behind the knuckles of his hand, and went to go and order their drinks while Merlin indulged his young charge.

He nodded to Michelle Unwin, Merlin’s only barista, and paid for their drinks. He made sure Merlin was preoccupied before slipping a little extra into the tip jar as Roxanne hopped down to join Eggsy at the table where he was coloring. Harry certainly didn’t want to interrupt, so he carried Roxy’s drink over to his and James’s usual table.

James, of course, caught his sideways glance at Merlin.

“You know, I don’t think he’d be against it if you were to go and ask to sit on his lap,” he said, with a gleam in his eye.

“James,” Harry hissed in warning. Merlin’s gaze drifted their way and he lifted a hand. Harry shyly returned the gesture, feeling the pink spread to his ears. Hopefully he hadn’t heard; the café wasn’t as large as all that.

“Harry,” James hissed back, nudging at his cousin.

Harry resisted the urge to swat at him like they were children again, instead clearing his throat and taking a sip of his latte.

“You know he’s keen on you,” James said.

Harry choked on the hot coffee. James pounded him on the back to make sure he got it all up. While James’s teasing might be in good fun, in reality it was one of Harry’s sources of personal misery. His crush on the café owner wasn’t helped by the fact that Merlin never seemed bothered by it being slow or even dead, welcoming them from the nearby estate with a cheerful hello when he saw them walk in.

Honestly, Harry was quite keen on the man they called Merlin – a nickname – at his request. Callum Craig was intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and dancing hazel eyes that caught Harry and held him. It just wasn’t something that was meant to be. While he was sure Merlin was nice, there was never any indication that he was treating them like anything other than customers.

Merlin treated everyone who walked into his shop like family, which was why the small café was popular with the locals in the first place.

“He isn’t,” Harry managed at last. “He’s just friendly.”

“Look, if he looked at me like he wanted to eat me up, I’d be there in a heartbeat, Haz, you know that.” James took a sip of his own latte and lifted his brows at Harry. Harry just scowled at the old childhood nickname. It was worse than Harry, but still better than Henry, at least in his opinion.

Merlin looked pleased to see Eggsy and Roxy getting along, then rose to head into the back. He didn’t say anything to Harry and James, perhaps so as not to break the illusion of Santa Claus being just for children. Harry turned his cup in his hands, watching the latte swirl slowly as he did.

“I couldn’t,” Harry said.

“I know,” James said. “Not for lack of me trying to get you to, believe me.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Harry groused, sipping at his drink. “It’s not important. This is Roxy’s time, not mine.”

Roxy had been dragging them to this café for months now, every time she’d been good enough to earn what she called a ‘grown up date’. She sipped a decaf latte with hot cocoa mixed in, cinnamon on top, and James and Harry got to spend time with her and get her out of Amanda’s hair for just a bit. It was a fine bit of family bonding, and one that Harry didn’t want to make awkward.

She’d made friends, too. Merlin’s barista, Michelle, had a son her age, Eggsy. Both of them were thick as thieves, and got into all sorts of adventures whilst it was sunny out. Now that it was winter, they were bound more indoors, but they still found plenty to do.

“You really are terrible at this,” James said. “Did you not date in University?”

"I'm sorry I was more interested in butterflies than shagging half of western Europe."

"Well, that's hardly fair."

"... you're right, it was rude of me to—"

"I shagged plenty of Eastern Europe as well. And some of the Americas as well."

"...I hate you."

James just laughed. “You still have no actual argument here. It wouldn’t hurt to just…give him your number.”

“It could ruin everything,” Harry countered.

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“But what if it does?” Harry said.

“You’ll never know unless you do it.”

“And we both know that won’t happen,” Harry said.

James rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself, but he’s coming this way. Try not to spill anything this time.”

Harry stiffened as Merlin entered his peripheral vision, smiling down at them. His Santa suit was gone, replaced with an argyle sweater and dress shirt in muted blues and greens. A smart bow tie accentuated the sweater, which looked soft enough to touch as it was.

Harry was quite sure he was going to go bright red and spill something, regardless of what James said. Merlin looked soft, and comfortable, and just the right amount of appealing to Harry’s own homebody nature. He would be just at home with dogs sleeping before the fireplace as he read something to Harry in that wonderful Scottish brogue—

“Everything taste good today, gentlemen?” Merlin asked, smiling.

James grinned up at him. “The day it doesn’t, I know there’s an impostor in our midst.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure he could.

“All right there, Mister Hart?” Merlin asked. There was a small frown line between Merlin’s brows and Harry realized he hadn’t said anything, but was staring. Hastily, he put down his mug—

\--and promptly missed the edge of the table, sending hot coffee down the front of his own trousers. He yelped, jerking back, and tipped his chair over, sending himself sprawling. He landed hard on his back, sucking for air that wouldn’t come as the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Mister Hart!” Merlin knelt beside him and Harry sort of wished he’d hit hard enough to sink into the floor and out of sight, because how mortifying. He hadn’t been burned badly, but it was a surprise. More a hit to his ego rather than his limbs, it was still mortifying.

He realized that Merlin was cradling his head, calling for Michelle to bring towels doused in cold water. Harry jerked upright, sitting up fast enough that Merlin had to scramble get out of his way, lest Harry headbutt him like they were playing rugby. As it was, Harry nearly missed his nose, then scooted hurriedly backward.

“I’m all right,” Harry stammered. “Really, I am.”

“I should at least see to your trousers,” Merlin said. “It’ll stain—”

“I’ll see to them,” Harry said. “I need to go.”

“Mister—”

But Harry was already up on his feet and out the door, bolting for where he’d parked his car. He was thankful he’d driven to meet James in the village; he and Roxy would be able to get home all right.

As for himself…well.

He opened his driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel, slamming the door and letting his head hit the steering wheel.

“You utter idiot, Harry Hart.”

* * *

It was dark by the time he’d thought to return to the village, though not quite late. It was nearing supper time, but Harry was hardly hungry as he let his car bump down the lane and found a parking spot for visitors. He could see the lights still burning merrily in Merlin’s café, though it was certain to be empty unless there were tourists in town at this hour.

He knew, too, that he’d sit out here in his car and stare longingly at the café until the lights went out and Merlin went home if he let himself. Instead, he climbed out of his car and trudged through the snowy streets to the café’s door. He knew Merlin was still in – he never made Michelle work an entire shift alone, and never this late; Eggsy was her priority, she’d told Harry and James once, and spending time with her husband Lee was just as important. So they went home and had supper together, and Merlin closed up alone.

The tables were still set, which meant Merlin was hoping for a few more customers before he closed up shop, or he was working on something special. Harry could never tell. Honestly, he spent more time flustered around Merlin than he did actually talking to him, but he’d seen some of his innovations, just around the village.

Roxy was certainly a fan of the slide he’d altered, using a pump and a hose to cool the metal from below.

Harry thought Merlin was brilliant, he just…couldn’t talk to him.

That ended tonight, he thought. He swallowed, hard, then pushed the door open.

Merlin glanced up, smiling at Harry. He set his pen down, moving from the notebook he was writing in at the counter, over to the register.

“Mister Hart,” he said. Harry let out a quiet breath at the relief in Merlin’s voice. “Are you all right?”

“Ah, quite…quite all right, thank you,” he managed. “I felt that I owed you an apology.”

“Me?” Merlin looked perplexed. “Whyever for?”

“Well, I did run out of here without any real explanation, leaving my cousin and his niece like a right idiot,” Harry started, his eyes sliding off of Merlin’s face and toward a corner. He could already feel his cheeks heating.

“I was more worried you’d been hurt,” Merlin said, the warmth in his voice evoking that same yearning Harry had developed long ago in regards to Callum Craig. “Are you well?”

“I am, thank you,” he murmured. “It was more a blow to my pride than any actual injury. You must think me a clumsy fool.”

“Not at all,” Merlin said. “I was just worried.”

Harry swallowed. “I appreciate your concern. If it eases any anxiety, I only came to tell you that—”

His throat was closing up, being so nervous around Merlin for so long had only honed that instinct.

“Your coffee. It was delicious. You asked, and I didn’t answer and—”

“That means a lot,” Merlin said. His smile was something genuine, like he was truly touched at the thought of Harry enjoying his coffee. “Thank you for telling me.”

Harry nodded, feeling stiff and stupid regardless.

“Harry?” Merlin said. He glanced around the shop, confirming that they were the only ones here. Harry swallowed again, knowing that he might make a fool of himself once more, but his full attention on Merlin.

“Yes?”

“Have you eaten?” Merlin asked.

Harry shook his head. “No. Not since breakfast.”

“You must be famished,” Merlin said. “Would you…like to come up for supper?”

“I…”

“It’s the least I can do, you see,” Merlin said, moving around the counter and wiping his hands on his apron. “Because you were hurt and I feel like perhaps I should do something—”

“You don’t have to,” Harry blurted. “But…if you want to, I should very much like to.”

Merlin tilted his head at him. “You should also be aware of something, Harry.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“You’re under the mistletoe.”

“I am?” Harry glanced up, but couldn’t see any. “Are you—”

The words died as he realized Merlin was much closer now, in his personal space and smiling like the cat that had the canary.

“No, but would it be horrible of me to kiss you now?”

Mutely, Harry shook his head, sighing softly as Merlin cupped his face, leaning in and pressing a gentle, searching kiss to Harry’s lips. It was almost clumsy in Harry’s earnest want to reciprocate, Merlin nibbling at his lip and Harry opening to him like a plant thirsty for rain. He had one hand in Merlin’s sweater, the other against the back of his neck, and they fit together like perfect halves of a larger whole, slotting against each other like they were made specifically to complement the other.

It was perfect, the anxious beat of his heart replaced by a stuttering trip of want and warmth. Harry gave a shuddering breath, and Merlin chuckled against his mouth, sending electric shivers down his spine. Merlin backed him gently against the counter, nuzzling at his jaw.

“I wondered if you’d headbutt me for real,” Merlin said, his breath tickling Harry’s neck. “I’ve never been that bold. But I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

“Me too,” Harry breathed, his hand still cupping the nape of Merlin’s neck. “Was supper a ruse?”

“Why?” Merlin asked, tilting his head in that same inquisitive way that Harry found he liked very much. Perhaps it was the hint of a smile at the corner of Merlin’s mouth.

“Because I’d like to spend more time with you,” he said.

To his surprise, his hesitation and his worry were gone, replaced with a shy sense of excitement.

Merlin just moved closer, boxing Harry in.

“You’re welcome any time,” Merlin said. “So long as you intend to stay.”

Harry found that he could get behind the sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU will definitely be expanded on later, when I have a chance to write it. Shy Harry is such a treat to write.


	19. Day Nineteen - Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has always been in good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 19 - Carol

**[Hougang, Singapore – December 24 th, 1985]**

Strangely, Harry found that he did not stick out as much as perhaps he thought he might. More than one businessman from London had been at his hotel, though he wasn’t put at ease for it. It merely allowed him to blend in a little easier.

Singapore was rapidly becoming one of the major economic powers in Asia, alongside Taiwan, South Korea and Hong Kong. With this growth came investors, sensing the ground floor of an economic boom. Speculation, perhaps, but enough to make it a good cover – he flashed good British money and it opened doors for him.

Directly, it seemed, into the operations heart of a human trafficking scheme.

People had been disappearing for a good long while, and it had fallen to Kingsman to stop it when local authorities looked the other way. Payoffs were rampant these days, and with as much legitimate business that was drawn into these budding economies, so too did a seedy underbelly flourish. It was the duality of man, at least in Harry’s experience. Rumors that a drug cartel operating in the Mediterranean needed the extra workers was enough for Kingsman to consider it a pandemic, something that required them to step in.

Harry had seen the warehouses, and thus, so had Merlin. Evidence was being gathered, money was being followed where able – cash was still king in Singapore, but it was easy to find large withdrawals. Now it was about finding the head of the snake and severing it.

His cover hadn’t been blown yet, but his new friends were exceedingly cautious. With Nimue translating in his ear in real time from a relay set up by Merlin at Central, he could tell that they were suspicious of his motives. They, however, didn’t know that he could understand their side conversations.

To be fair, he’d played this game before, and he was good at playing dumb until the situation called for it.

It helped him be two steps ahead of them a few days later when they decided his money just wasn’t dirty enough for their liking, and attempted to bomb his hotel room. He took to the rooftops, a squad of them chasing him.

“Cover’s quite blown now,” he said, managing to sound flippant at a full sprint across a shoddy rooftop.

“That it is,” Merlin said, his brogue sliding down Harry’s spine with that same electric caress that it had two years ago in Spain.

He couldn’t appreciate it now, ducking gunfire and sliding past tin roof escarpments that blocked some shots but made it impossible to return fire. Having the high ground was important, and he backtracked, long legs taking him at speed over roofs and alleyways in graceful leaps. He ducked, bullets whining past his ear in warning as he turned, sliding to a stop and changing direction abruptly.

“A map would be useful,” he panted.

“Working on a real time solution, apologies, Galahad. For now, drop down when you can and lose them on the streets.” There was the rustling of paper on Merlin’s line and a grunt of frustration. “These maps are too old – Emrys, where are my updates?”

Harry tuned it out, the hum of Merlin in his ear incidental as he took a set of rickety stairs to the street level, his shoes sliding on the wet concrete as he ducked out into a bustling night market. He was too tall and pale to do anything but stick out, but Harry was also a master of improvisation when necessary.

He slipped away from the smells and sound of the marketplace, moving down an alleyway until he found what he was looking for. While the sewers were usually a last resort, not knowing the streets and buildings in this city was detrimental to another solution. Harry slid down the sloped side of the storm drainage ditch, moving to the entrance of the pipes. It didn’t smell too awful, though he uncapped his menthol gel and put some around his nostrils as a matter of habit.

“I think I’m clear,” he said softly. “No gear, nothing but what I have on me, but it should be enough. I’m going to lie low for a couple of hours and then move for the airport.”

“You might need more,” Merlin said. “There’s chatter locally that they’re passing your description around. You’ve got a private jet inbound, but it won’t be landing for four hours. Flight checks might take longer than normal, so you’ll want to arrive right as it’s been cleared so take-off can be smooth. Perhaps six hours, minimum?”

Harry sighed. “Nothing’s ever easy.”

“No,” Merlin agreed. “But I’ll be in your ear the whole way.”

“Then I’m in no better hands,” Harry said. Perhaps his pleased purr would be missed to other ears at Central, but not to Merlin’s. Spain had been the beginning of something momentous, in Harry’s opinion. Now, it was up to Harry to keep his cards close – and Merlin closer.

Easier said than done.

* * *

Harry had been dozing lightly in his drain pipe, knowing he couldn’t be seen from the streets. Very few people looked to the low places, and while Harry himself was often coiffed for work in high society, he was no stranger to ditches and hidey-holes when needed. A Kingsman was a gentleman, true, but a Kingsman was also adaptable.

He was leaning on the wall, dozing standing up, tucked out of sight and out of the reach of all but the most flash of floods. He and Merlin had spoken quietly, but the chatter would be frowned upon if he continued to talk, so he asked Merlin to just continue as normal and let him know when it was time to move.

Merlin left on his mic, so Harry could hear the background chatter of the techs, though soon things died down as more and more of them were sent home, leaving only essential staff. Harry could hear someone humming a carol through the mic, and he realized it was Merlin. He caught snatches, here and there, of the song – _With Wondering Awe_.

Harry wondered if Merlin was a man of faith. He himself was agnostic to the point of being obnoxious about it, but he still knew so little about Merlin. There was so much he wanted to share with him.

“Galahad.”

“Here, Merlin.”

“You should be clear to move. I’ve got a map up and workable, though I’ve had to cobble it together. Let me know if something is inaccurate and I’ll try and get you an alternate route.”

Harry stretched himself, feeling his joints protest. “Ta, Merlin. I’ll do my best.”

He pulled his climbing kit out and readied his rope. Light, strong enough to hold up to fifteen hundred pounds, the rope was a synthetic that felt like silk and handled like steel. Developed in the last year or so, Merlin had managed to squeeze almost fifty feet into a spool fixed into the back of his jacket’s lining. Perhaps not the most practical of things, but Harry was glad he had it at the moment.

He looped a length of rope and tossed it up, landing it over a fence post. With the line taut, Harry donned his gloves and began his slick climb up. The streets were quieter this early in the morning, and Harry respooled his rope quickly so as to get out of sight.

Following Merlin’s quiet directions, he shuttled himself toward the safer part of town, towards the airport and various travel hotels that made a pretense of security for foreign travelers. Harry was sweaty and smelled of drainpipe, missing all but the most basic of cash and necessities. There was no way he was getting a cab, and so he legged it. After he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he nicked a bicycle and took off, riding towards the airport.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and not just due to the exertion. There was a spike of adrenaline every time he lingered long enough for people to get a glimpse of his face. He didn’t breathe easier until he made his arrival at the tarmac, slipping past armed guards on patrol to the hangar where his jet awaited him.

Harry had never been so happy to see a Lear in his life. He ditched the bike just outside of the hangar, staggering in. Not exactly his most flashy of entrances, but it would do.

Any one you walked away from.

The pilot, a man in Kingsman employ, gave him a nod and he headed up the stairs and inside. The papers had all be properly doctored, bribes had been paid, and all that was left was to get them gone. The engines starting was music to Harry’s ears, though he wouldn’t rest easily until he touched his home’s soil once more.

He sank into one of the leather seats with a grimace. There would be a hot shower in his future, he was sure, as soon as he touched down. For now, he contented himself with a handkerchief soaked in a bottle of water to get the worst of the grime off. Followed with a long draught of water, he was almost feeling properly human again.

“I didn’t get you any proper intel,” Harry muttered. “My apologies, Merlin.”

“You got me plenty,” Merlin chided in return. “We know where the money is going. We’re still researching, but we’re following it as best we can. Meanwhile, you can come back to Central, be debriefed, and rest up until we find something. You do good work, Galahad.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the praise.

“Oh, and Galahad?”

“Hm?”

“Happy Christmas.”

Harry glanced at the clock. It was past midnight, London time. He hadn’t even noticed. He would be touching down late in the afternoon on the twenty-fifth.

“And to you, Merlin.”

There was a sort of shy silence between them. Harry wondered if Merlin had been home yet, to discover the gift Harry had picked the lock and disabled the security to deliver.

Plenty of time to ask once he got home, he mused, as the jet taxied off the runway and toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something soft and nascent Merlahad is always a treat to write.


	20. Day Twenty - Hymn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes his apologies. Or...he tries to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Twenty Prompt: Hymn

**[Grindelwald, Switzerland – December 2009]**

Merlin was in a snit, and it was Harry’s fault. He’d brought up the idea that Kingsman had more tech to test to Arthur, and now Merlin was on the hook for more inventions than he was prepared to make. While Merlin had something on the back burner – and he always did, as Harry’s partner was nothing short of brilliant and a workaholic, both traits that made him attractive to the Knight while simultaneously frustrating Harry – it didn’t necessarily mean he had anything ready for testing.

Instead of talking it over with Merlin first, Harry had volunteered them, thus securing Kingsman assets for the Christmas season with Arthur’s blessing. It came with the caveat that Merlin should have test results to show Arthur come Boxing Day.

It had made the jet ride over a tense one, with Merlin shuttering himself in the private office in the back without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving Harry and James to talk amongst themselves while Martin piloted them to their destination.

It was, in Harry’s opinion, not ideal.

Now they were getting settled in their respective small lodges just outside the town of Grindelwald proper, and Merlin still hadn’t said anything to Harry outside of what was necessary. It was frustrating, but understandable, in hindsight. Merlin was livid at both James and Harry for winding up a thread that Merlin was not in any shape to carry to completion, not without being told beforehand.

Harry had been left to his own devices, unpacking both their cases and putting away clothing and toiletries. He’d been down to the shops already, grabbing essential groceries, but something was definitely missing without Merlin on his arm.

Harry risked it. He poked his head into the space Merlin had claimed as a worktable, clearing his throat.

Merlin didn’t look up from his work. “What is it?”

“I was thinking supper,” he said. “Would you like something in particular?”

“No, since you seem to know best at all times, whatever you decide will do, I suppose.” Merlin’s tone was acerbic, and he put down the device he was tinkering with to scribble on the pad beside his hand.

Harry winced. Not that he hadn’t deserved that, it was still a little disheartening.

“All right,” he said softly. “I’ll figure something out.”

He left Merlin to his work.

* * *

“Well, that’s hardly fair!” James said, leaning back on his spot on the couch. “He can’t blame you forever.”

His arm was around Martin’s shoulders, and the other man was carefully sharpening what Harry recognized as one of his favorite boot knives. Leave it to Martin to bring work home, he thought.

“He can,” Martin said. “Merlin didn’t ask for the extra work.”

“Well, it’s not like you didn’t leap to come out with us,” James pointed out, lifting his brows at Martin.

“You told me there were new weapons to test.”

“No, what I said was that there were new toys—”

Harry closed his eyes and breathed out a silent plea for James to not finish that thought.

* * *

Harry returned from the other cabin with some warm food. He unwrapped the _berner platte,_ grabbed some silverware for Merlin, and brought the food into the office. Merlin didn’t look up, but Harry was unobtrusive as he set the warm food beside Merlin’s hand and pressed a quiet kiss to the wizard’s temple.

“I’m going to bed,” he murmured. “If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome.”

Merlin grunted, but didn’t acknowledge Harry beyond that, turning the device in his hands to fit another delicate piece in place.

* * *

Harry had made himself a bed up on the sofa in the sitting room. There didn’t seem to be any reason to go up to the large bed alone, and the firelight was nice to read by. He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until he felt gentle fingers carding through his curls.

“Harry,” Merlin said, and Harry stirred, opening his eyes. Merlin was kneeling beside the sofa, a look of concern on his face. “Have you been sleeping out here all night?”

“Must have dozed off,” Harry replied, yawning. “I’m all right. You can have the bed, if you’re still angry with me.”

“Harry,” Merlin looked conflicted, perhaps guilty; Harry found it difficult to tell in the faded firelight. “Come to bed.”

“Not until we’ve hashed this out,” Harry said. He sat up, reaching out and tugging Merlin up to sit beside him on the couch. “You’re angry with me.”

Merlin kept himself a little distant, but it wasn’t as bad as before. Harry kept Merlin’s hand in his own, and he felt Merlin start to rub his thumb along Harry’s knuckles.

“Was,” Merlin said. “Not anymore. I’ve been thinking. Working always helps that.”

“Oh?” Harry said.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a gremlin to you today,” Merlin said softly. “I was angry that you would sign me up for more work than I agreed to, as it’s my holiday, too.”

“And I realize what I did was poorly thought out,” Harry replied. “I promise, I’ll get your input next time.”

“I don’t even need to ask to know that there will be a next time, do I?” Merlin said.

Harry gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “If it becomes necessary.”

“Clue me in via spectacles, then,” Merlin said. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Harry’s. “Thank you for understanding why I was upset and giving me space.”

“It was the least I could do,” Harry said. “I brought it on us in the first place. I’ll think things through more carefully next time.”

They sat, for a time, listening to the slow pop of the logs as they burnt to embers in the fireplace. Harry pulled back and pulled Merlin into his arms. This time, Merlin came without hesitation, curling into Harry’s lap. It was amazing to him, how he and the wizard fit like two halves of a whole, made to complement each other. He gazed up at him, offering him the smallest of smiles, which was returned.

“Dinner was good,” Merlin said, after a moment. “Thank you.”

“Thank James,” Harry said. “He’s stepped up his cooking. Say what you will, he’s always known his way around a sausage.”

Merlin barked a startled laugh, cupping a hand over his mouth and then tucking himself against Harry’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking as he laughed. Harry hummed, pleased with himself as he ran a hand up and down Merlin’s spine.

“God, I love you,” Merlin said, breathless. For Harry, it was soft as a hymn, pressed against his skin like he was a pagan altar. He reveled in it, humming as he turned his head, meeting Merlin’s lips with his own.

No matter how many times he kissed him, his partner sent an electric thrill through him. Merlin’s fingers slid into the soft hair at Harry’s nape, eliciting a pleased sort of sound from deep in his chest. Though he was still sleepy, there was no expectation of anything but this, existing here with Merlin, loving the man in his arms. With their tiff laid to rest, they could get to the real reason Harry had wanted this time off.

Being with each other. Taking a break just for them.

Merlin pulled back, breathless. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Now?” Harry said. “As you wish, dove.”

When Merlin rose from his lap and extended a hand, Harry took it without reservation. He was right where he was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little extension of Chapter 12. I have a little more in that vein I want to write, I think.


	21. Day Twenty-One - Sled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until someone loses a finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 21: Sled

**[December 2015]**

“Not everything has to be weapons training, Percy,” Eggsy whined.

“It’s _Percival_.” Martin lifted an eyebrow at him. “Says the man who used a silver platter to defend himself from a woman who used _sharpened prosthetics_ as weapons.”

Eggsy shrugged. “Improvisation isn’t training.”

“Amazing, how you became Galahad doing just that and yet every word of that sentence was wrong,” Martin said. He turned to Roxy, standing next to him. “Show him, Lancelot.”

She nodded, taking the snowy hill at a run. At the crest she leapt, using the metal saucer sled as a landing platform and makeshift snowboard. She gained speed as she descended, before miming a wipe out at the bottom of the hill. The saucer shot out from beneath her feet, embedding itself in the target – a snowman behind a constructed barrier of snow. The saucer made a ringing noise as it sliced through the snowman, sending the upper half sliding off the lower and toppling the snowman.

There was a thumbs-up from the prone Roxy as she grinned at them on her back at the bottom of the hill.

Martin’s gaze was a challenge, though he seemed smug about Eggsy’s open-mouthed awe.

“She learned to do that at sixteen. Let’s see if you can pick it up.” He held out a saucer to Eggsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to write more about Eggsy and Martin bonding, honestly.


	22. Day Twenty-Two - Chestnut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin likes Harry's townhome, but only when Harry's in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 22 - Chestnut

**[December 1999]**

Merlin liked Harry’s townhome in Chelsea well enough. It was posh, as most Kingsman properties were, but it was one of the few that Merlin maintained any sort of presence within – he often dedicated a week every few months to go through and remove listening bugs and hidden cameras, and to sweep the premises for holes in security.

It was different, here. While teams did that for the other Knights as well, Merlin made careful work of the bugs placed by those teams for Arthur to watch and listen – it would be in poor taste to let Arthur know he was watching as well. Arthur had been fed so many rotating loops of James and Martin and Harry’s nightly lives that he likely didn’t realize that half the time one or more weren’t at home.

Now, however, was the holiday, and Harry’s turn to host. Harry’s townhome was decorated sparsely, with some greenery and a tree in the living room decorated with lights and baubles. It was tasteful, but understated. It was enough for both of them, however. Harry didn’t celebrate the holidays, not like the usual people, and it was only once he and Merlin had gotten over the worst of what Rhodes had done to them.

The second year since Thomas’s passing seemed to have been easier for Harry. Merlin listened to him slumber, the soft exhale of his breath as Merlin held him against his shoulder. There was less melancholy over the holiday, more joy. Slowly, Harry was returning to the man Merlin remembered, with less of a haunted look about him.

Perhaps it was how Merlin took care of him, keeping him close and helping him to forget. Perhaps it was Harry’s uncanny ability to move forward, despite what was weighing him down. Merlin could only wait and see.

Now, however, the snow was falling softly past the window, the fire was crackling in the grate, and Harry was asleep against him, his arm draped over Merlin’s waist. It was…good. Merlin slid his fingers through Harry’s hair. Chestnut until the light hit it, then the auburn showed through in reds and coppers, it was silky soft to the touch, and Merlin always enjoyed the feel of Harry’s natural curls against his fingers.

Harry murmured in his sleep, turning to face Merlin, tucking his face more into Merlin’s neck. It was a sweet sound, reminding him that Harry was safest here, under his watch. Merlin closed his eyes, loath to let sleep claim him, but letting it all the same, lured there with the warmth of the man against his side and the quiet calm of the season. His worries could wait until Boxing Day.

For now, he was here, and present. It was enough. For men like them, it was a gift in and of itself, and Merlin didn’t intend to waste it by letting his thoughts chase him. He merely pulled Harry closer and let his worries go.

He found it was his best Christmas gift to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always seem to write the soft pieces from Merlin's standpoint. He's such a good lens for how I feel about Harry, though.


	23. Day Twenty-Three - Snowfall*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, you must admit I am being rather patient with you,” Harry said, his tail swishing as he watched Merlin carefully bottle, then stopper the potions he was brewing. His golden-brown eyes were wide in the light, his pupils slits as he regarded Merlin. “I miss having thumbs, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day Twenty-Three: Snowfall
> 
> An AU of another AU that bearfeathers and I have discussed at length. Modern magic AUs are fun to dabble with.

“It’s deathly out there,” Harry said.

Merlin didn’t look up from where he was stirring his pot, even when Harry shook the snow from his fur and leaped upon the table. While he’d tried to keep the cat from his home, Harry seemed to know secret ways and means to get inside his tiny garret above the city. He ignored the soft thump of paws as Harry leaped up onto the counter from the table, pacing over to where Merlin was brewing his latest batch.

“Smells off,” Harry said, his delicate pink nose twitching. “Thankfully, I managed to find some arrow root while I was out.”

He pushed the herbs toward Merlin, who picked them up without a second thought, examining them before he set his knife to them, shredding the dark brown roots and adding them bit by bit to the mixture until the yellow evened out into a healthier orange.

“Thank you,” Merlin said.

“No need,” Harry said. “You still owe me – and don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“I’ve promised you nothing, cat.” Merlin stirred the mixture counterclockwise, precise movements of his wrists that had the mix going from orange to a deep red, the color of good wine.

“Surely my help has made some sort of difference,” Harry protested. “You’re a half-decent magician, I don’t see why you can’t reverse the curse I’m under.”

A majestic brown moggie, his parentage was in question but his bearing was not. Large and fluffy (and by hand weight Merlin had to guess almost twenty pounds), the cat spoke when it pleased him and was infuriatingly silent when it was most needed.

Merlin had initially named him ‘Stop That’, but Harry was rather vocal even then, and had informed Merlin that he was, in fact, capable of understanding him. And that he had a name. He could also apparently brew potions with the best of them, able to reach ingredients Merlin could not for whatever reason. Too many times Harry had come back with a mouthful of exactly what was needed for Merlin’s current concoction.

Merlin’s potions were exemplary – and they had improved even more with Harry’s intervention, but the fact of the matter was that Merlin wasn’t entirely sure that Harry was cursed. He didn’t know how to tell the cat that, and he wasn’t sure that Harry would accept it, either. Whatever preliminary sweeps and investigations that Merlin had done only showed that someone had enchanted this cat with the ability to speak.

Harry wasn’t a man, despite his insistence he was.

So, Merlin put him off, day by day. It was coming to a point that Harry would remind Merlin, Merlin would push him off, and that would be the end of it. But Merlin had a fear that Harry would become frustrated one of these days and that would be the last he’d see of the fluffy menace.

It was a shame, because he found himself becoming attached to Harry, in a comfortably familiar sort of way.

“I still haven’t worked it out,” Merlin mumbled.

“Well, you must admit I am being rather patient with you,” Harry said, his tail swishing as he watched Merlin carefully bottle, then stopper the potions he was brewing. His golden-brown eyes were wide in the light, his pupils slits as he regarded Merlin. “I miss having thumbs, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said. “I’m working on it as well as I can, but the curse you’re under is esoteric and complicated.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Harry said.

Merlin started boxing the bottles without answering him.

* * *

Traditionally, Merlin didn’t often celebrate Christmas. Living alone had desensitized him to the whole holiday, to the point where it became a marker to the end of the year and nothing more. He had something planned, just a roast, but it was still something a little special to eat. He found himself saving a little aside for Harry as well, the cat demolishing the slices of cold roast after being out for so long.

As the clock ticked down toward Christmas Day, Merlin found himself heading to bed early. His preference was to lay awake reading in bed until the wee hours, but tonight was muffled in snowfall and he was tired of being alone with his thoughts. He cut the lights, hearing Harry leap into his usual spot on the chair in the corner of the room. He kept his bedroom door cracked for the cat to get out, though he supposed Harry could find his way out through his secret ways if he so chose.

His eyes were growing heavy, and he settled into the warmth of his bed. He drifted off to the muffling silence of snow piling up around his windowsill.

* * *

Merlin woke to the sensation of his arm going numb. He rolled to his side, only to find a beautiful man pillowed in the crook of his elbow. Merlin caught his breath, watching the weak winter sunlight play through unruly brown curls, turning them ruddy in the light. His face was finely sculpted, as though a master craftsman had touched him and then placed him here. He wanted to touch, but he was afraid of waking the man. Broad shoulders, a trim waist and lean hips, legs that went on forever; the man looked to have been plucked from some sort of a dream and deposited in his bed.

He was very real, very warm, and very nude, pressed against Merlin’s side and snuffling softly in his sleep, one hand draped possessively over Merlin’s hip.

Merlin must have made some sound, some motion, because the lovely creature that had put his arm to sleep stirred, only to curl closer, nuzzling into his neck. Merlin caught his breath, feeling the warmth of the man seep into his very bones as the other tangled their limbs, leaving Merlin’s heart pounding.

“I told you I had thumbs,” came a soft murmur. Said thumbs kneaded against his hip, almost but not quite distracting him from the idea that this sounded much like the brown moggie currently asleep on his chair.

“Did you, now?” he managed, his whisper hoarse.

“Are you just in the habit of not listening?” The man said, running his nose gently against the curve of Merlin’s jaw before giving a full-body stretch, pressing himself against Merlin with a delicious sense of personal leisure. He lifted his head, fixing Merlin with a rather familiar gaze, golden brown eyes gone the color of chocolate that had been melted. “Because I should find a way of attracting your attention.”

Merlin swallowed. “You have it, I promise you.”

Harry, because Merlin couldn’t shake the idea that this was indeed his feline friend, let his eyes rove up Merlin’s hips, across his stomach and chest, the gaze possessive to the point of scorching. Merlin swallowed again, harder, because he was finding it difficult to concentrate as Harry started to let his hands roam.

“It seems that I do,” he purred.

* * *

Merlin woke with a start. He could see his breath in the air; the heat must have cut out again. He glanced over, finding his arm was indeed asleep, with a magnificent mound of fur asleep on top of his arm and tucked against his side.

Cold in the night, Harry must have crept over from the chair and sought Merlin for body heat. It was rare for Harry to get this close, and Merlin could hear the rumbling purr that was a constant as Harry slumbered.

Merlin realized that perhaps he had been mistaken. Not the most tactile of men, he’d never petted Harry for any length of time. Both of them had seemed to come to the unspoken conclusion that it was undignified for them both. The cat had seldom wound himself against Merlin’s ankles, preferring to scold him from eye-level whilst sitting on a counter or on the back of his chair. There wasn’t a great amount of affection in their relationship, otherwise Merlin might have realized sooner.

He frowned, watching Harry’s little side rise and fall as he breathed.

If he had petted Harry, maybe he would have seen the extra layer to the geas sooner. But perhaps that was also a part of the spell? He wouldn’t know until he did some research, but the thread of it, the mystery, already had his mind working.

Merlin must have made some sound, some motion, because the cat stirred, only to curl closer, nuzzling into his side.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “Your heat is out. _Again._ Otherwise I would be out and about already.”

“So I see,” Merlin said. He wiggled his arm, making Harry’s eyes narrow into slits as the magician jiggled him. “If you’ll get off my arm, I’ll start a fire and see about getting the heater working.”

“In a moment,” Harry said. “It really is quite cold.”

Merlin lay back, letting Harry leech body heat from him for a while longer. “As you wish. Though…perhaps I have some questions for you.”

“Then perhaps I have answers,” Harry replied. He gave a full-body stretch, then resumed a compact circular form against Merlin’s side, freeing his arm. “Depending on the questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days I'll write out this whole universe. Still, I like dabbling in it from time to time.


	24. Day Twenty-Four - Tinsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is progress, Jack finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 prompt: Tinsel

**Statesman satellite offices, Hollywood, California – December 2015**

Routine missions helped him keep his mind off things. Slowly but surely, he was getting back to where he needed to be. Focusing on work, on his people, it helped. As much as Jack hated to admit it, Champ had been right in that assessment. He thumbed through his report, sitting back after a moment to rub at his eyes.

They’d been out here for almost two months, following the trail of several missing people. Their link at first just seemed to be that they were child actors who got out of the business and led well-adjusted lives, but it ended up running deeper than even Ginger Ale could have foreseen. Someone had been collecting them, making them reprise their most famous roles even though they’d well outgrown them.

Walking through the darkened sets, many of them calling back to his own childhood, had unsettled Jack. They’d recovered the group of five actors, unharmed physically – though who knew what the mental toll would be once they were safe and sound. Their target had escaped, but he hadn’t been able to complete whatever strange ritual he was working on, so Statesman had considered it a net win.

He and Ginger were working on following the money, with his boots on the ground to follow leads she dug up while working safely in the bunker back in Kentucky. Lee had flown out to support him, Tequila joining him halfway through his recovery efforts.

They worked well together, always had, a rapport that hadn’t translated to down time and socializing outside the mission. Jack didn’t begrudge either of them that; he knew that his own personality was to blame for that.

After ushering their charges safely home and into their waiting family’s arms, Jack had time to not only trail their suspect, but to reflect. It was only after, as he was sitting down in the borrowed office to go through his paperwork, that he realized that the date of—

Well.

The most important date in his life had passed with barely a blip of acknowledgement from him. He almost felt guilty, feeling the weight of the fact that he’d been distracted and distanced by work settle on his shoulders now that he had time for it.

It had been obvious why Lee had been sent; Jack was notorious for taking this time and holing up somewhere to get blackout drunk. Ginger Ale had been right to be worried, given his past reaction to this time of year. He remembered them going to find him in Texas. This year, however, had been…different.

Was this really living? He had no clue. He hadn’t had a clue since that day. Grief counselors assured him that the pain would lessen, that it would hurt less and leave time and focus for more fond memories as he went along. Moving through grief was important, they’d said. Time was essential to helping him through it. He hadn’t had the time this year to focus, much less get hammered and hole himself up in his quarters at the compound as usual.

He took off his glasses, powering them down for a minute while he rubbed at his face. Was he a terrible person for feeling…almost relieved he hadn’t remembered until it was too late? He’d been insulated by his work, letting instinct take over and shut down his brain a little.

He had to keep focused on what he was doing. He was freer in work than he was anywhere else, where he would slow down long enough for the black morass of the past to wrap around his ankles and drag him down. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, letting his breathing slow as he concentrated on getting back to the task at hand.

A knock on the door jamb startled him, and he looked up to find Tequila watching him. How long he’d been there, Jack didn’t know, but the hot shame of someone else seeing his private weakness made color rise out of his collar and up his ears.

“Hey,” Lee said. He cleared his throat, glancing away.

“Hey,” Jack replied. Stiffly, they both searched for a way to broach the awkward silence.

“I was grabbing food,” Lee said. “You want something?”

Jack breathed out. This was normal, just work. Food before continuing with the next leg of what they were doing. The research could wait for that long.

He pushed himself back from his desk, closing the file over the papers he was writing out and shoving it in the desk drawer.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

Lee blinked in surprise, then nodded.

He’d always been the easygoing type, the type of Southern man embodied in casual politeness mixed with an amazing capacity for violence when the situation called for it. Jack was the same, cut from the same cloth, and they understood each other. Perhaps a little too well. Tequila made no secret that he played for both teams, had flirted with Jack as easily as he flirted with Ginger.

Jack had always brushed him off. Rumors circulated, as they always did, that Tequila and Ginger Ale were a thing, and while he’d never outright asked, as it wasn’t his business, he was glad they’d found each other. Better that they had each other than the alternative.

While he had deflected advances from the agent before him years ago, there was still that anticipatory breath, held close to the chest and never exhaled, but there. Expectant. Jack would never indulge, and Tequila seemed all right with it, but it was…

On reflection, it had been nice that someone showed genuine interest. Not the predatory want of a mark being seduced, not the one-night stand where he was gone the next morning without a backward glance, guilt perched on his shoulder like a living thing. No, genuine interest, as in listening to what he had to say, remembering, and acting on it later.

Lee looked up to him; there was no secret in that, almost all of Statesman knew that Lee looked up to their most senior agent. Someone else might have mistaken that hero worship for something else, something to use up and toss away. Jack had more respect for Lee than that, if he didn’t for himself. It was puppy love at best, a fantasy on his part at worst. It was the thought that had counted, something for Jack to hold close to himself without indulging.

It was enough. It was more than.

He didn’t have to reciprocate, especially not if Lee and Ginger were a thing. There was no pressure, no need for him to weigh his baggage against the things he might have wanted if his circumstances had been different. There was no expectation for him to answer or to choose. He could just…be. It had been so long since he could do that, it was nice to have the option.

He breathed out, and the tension was gone as he offered Lee a crooked smile. The moment was gone as fast as it had cropped up, leaving Jack to lock up his door and move on. They strode from the offices, shoulder to shoulder, companionable silence reigning rather than the need to fill the space with conversation.

Jack found himself grateful to Lee for being here, and to Ginger for sending him. He didn’t know what to call it, but it was there, something small and warm that kept the yawning dark at bay for just a little while.

Sometimes moving on wasn’t painful. It happened without his noticing, sliding away from him little by little. It was slow, but it was progress. At this point in his life, it was all he could ask for, and realistically, it was going to be all right.

He could make it through another year. That was what counted the most.

* * *

Ginger sat back from her console, rubbing her eyes. The mission wasn’t over, but there was down time. It would be time for a break for her as well, and she made a note to get something to eat and grab what rest she could.

She was glad that Jack was showing so much more improvement. He was socializing, working well with Lee and actually suggesting that he go with Lee to get food was a huge improvement over even a few years ago. Jack had been bitterly solitary for so much of his life that watching him reach out was a balm to her own worried mind.

Champ pinged her comm line, and she answered, knowing that he would be expecting a full report.

She could give it to him with a fuller heart this time. Jack was showing improvement. That was why he’d been chosen for this; not just his skill sets mattered in Statesman. The hope had been that the active mission would help him find closure in work and keeping himself busy. Had he slid backward, Lee would have stepped in to finish the mission and would have taken care of loose ends and getting Jack home safely.

Thankfully, her intuition had been right and Jack took too much pride in his work to indulge while on a mission; while she had no doubt that he saw right through her ruse of him needing the backup, she also was encouraged by the idea that he was trying. He was trying to show them he was working on it.

That, in and of itself, was a fine gift to be given so close to Christmas. She rose from her chair, grabbing her clipboard as she filled Champ in on their mission.

Things were going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know Tinseltown is a bit of a stretch, but it's something I've been wanting to expand on for a while. I need to get more into the nitty gritty of this whole thing between Jack, Ginger, and Lee. (Yes, there is a Thing, none of them are talking about it, and it's hilarious to watch from the outside if you're in Statesman.)


	25. Day Twenty-Five - Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> _And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!_
> 
> _– Charles Dickens, **A Christmas Carol**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Day 25 - Family

**Kingsman Estates, just outside Glasgow, Scotland – December 24 th, 2018**

The knock on Harry’s door wasn’t unexpected this late in the evening, at least, not this time. He had, after all, summoned Eggsy to his offices.

He rose, smoothing down the folders he was working with before tucking them in his desk drawer and locking it. As he answered the door to his office, he found himself reflecting on his last Christmas visit, so long ago. These were happier circumstances, indeed.

He opened his door to reveal Eggsy, dressed in jeans and a jumper. A sight better than his usual street wear – especially with the dress shirt beneath the jumper – but definitely not something Kingsman would approve of out in the streets. It was interesting, seeing Eggsy at home no matter what he wore, taking to new venues like a duck to water – though he was sure he’d never get tired of listening to Roxanne reveal exactly how much help Eggsy had needed at his first dinner with Tilde’s parents.

He was grateful for the rest of Kingsman helping to polish off what he’d started with Eggsy. The majority of the credit went to Merlin, of course, but there was plenty to be said for Martin and Roxanne’s efforts as well. James was slowly settling into his role as Eggsy’s godfather, something he’d wanted so long ago but only now got the chance to attend to.

His protégé was in the finest of hands.

He stepped back, smiling at Eggsy. “On time, well done.”

“We can’t all be you, yeah?” Eggsy said, giving him a cheeky grin in return.

While Harry had relinquished his title of Galahad to Eggsy in order to take on the Arthur moniker, his chronic tardiness in the face of important meetings had always been a subject of much discussion. Whether it was Merlin’s fond remonstration, or Martin’s acerbic observation, it had always been a point of pride for Harry to make intolerable people wait just that much longer for him. It had always been the one thing guaranteed to get under Chester’s skin just that little bit to keep him off balance and direct his irritation towards Harry, rather than his colleagues.

“Quite,” Harry said, his smile not fading. “Drink?”

“Yes, Harry,” Eggsy said. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” Harry said, gesturing to one of the plush chairs by the fire.

Usually reserved for quiet evenings between himself and Merlin, it was still very much an open meeting place. Overstuffed and squashy, the chairs were hardly the elegant leather-bound chairs that adorned Arthur’s official offices down on the ground floor – these were Harry’s private chambers, and thus, he decorated for comfort, not for any sort of ostentation.

Eggsy sank into one gratefully as Harry mixed them both a martini. He stretched his feet out to the fire, looking like a half-asleep cat by the time Harry poured their drinks and brought him one of them in its elegant stemware.

“I’ve something for you,” Harry said, seating himself opposite Eggsy with his own martini.

He watched Eggsy light up, the way he always lit up when happily surprised, and was once again struck by how lucky he had been, once again, to choose a candidate that had his whole world written on his face, up until his mission became priority. Eggsy was open and emotional, until it came time for it to be pushed to the side.

He was a genuine man, and had grown to be an exceptional Knight. Harry felt that the Galahad title would flourish under Eggsy’s exploits. He had left it in good hands.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and removed the small wrapped parcel, passing it across the gap of the chairs to Eggsy.

“For your office,” Harry said.

“My office?” Eggsy said.

“Yes. Much like the one in England, you’ve an office here, too.”

Eggsy sucked his teeth. “I didn’t feel like I should…use the one on the estate. It had been yours.”

“My dear boy, rest assured, had I been dead, I would have gained no further discomfort from you completing your reports in my chair,” Harry said.

Eggsy frowned. Harry realized his light tone might have put Eggsy off more than the words themselves.

“Besides,” Harry continued. “What did my old office have that my townhome did not?”

“Merlin,” Eggsy replied.

Harry paused.

“I didn’t want him to think that all of you was gone, even though I kept most of the townhouse the same,” Eggsy said, shrugging. “We even slept in the guest bedroom I stayed in when I spent that twenty-four hours with you before the dog test. Didn’t…feel like it was right, taking the master.”

Because he hadn’t felt like the master. Harry nodded, slowly. He hadn’t inherited Thomas’s home on St. George’s Hill – what private property Thomas had, most of it had gone to Lucy, when it hadn’t been divvyed over to Kingsman. There was very little Harry himself owned in the way of private property, at least, that Kingsman had known about. Only Merlin could access Harry’s private files where maps to his rentals and boltholes around the world resided.

Harry had ensured that those, long ago, were to be willed to Merlin in the event of his untimely demise. It had always been part of the paperwork; acquire a small parcel of land with a house on it, retrofit it as a safehouse, will the house to Merlin with the closing paperwork. Upwards of thirty-four separate properties, close enough to many hot zones so that he could make a reasonable escape and refit, were Harry’s legacy, all signed over to Merlin in the event of his death.

Eggsy wouldn’t have known that about him; likely Eggsy had learned very little of Harry’s day to day routine and responsibilities that he kept up with outside of Kingsman. Only Merlin knew the extent. Only Merlin had the entirety, all the pieces of Harry’s puzzle, and Harry preferred it that way.

Harry managed a rusty hum. It was all so complex, more so than it had been when he was a young man. Harry Hart had always thought he would live fast, die young, and leave a pretty corpse. He hadn’t accounted on being skilled at his job, to the point where he’d outlived many of his colleagues, gained a husband and a surrogate son.

It was strange.

Bless Eggsy for looking out for Merlin. He couldn’t imagine the agony the almost two years his absence caused his partner. Having Eggsy to ease the burden some might have helped, though Merlin preferred to keep his thoughts on that time to himself. He would rather clutch Harry to him in the night, as though by force of his grip alone he could forestall Harry’s passing once more – for as long as conceivable.

“Well, this office is truly yours,” Harry said, after a long moment. “No other Galahad before you will have seated himself at your desk.”

“I guess that’s true,” Eggsy said.

Harry gestured at the little package. “Open it.”

Eggsy did, using his thumb to slit the wrapping paper at the back of his gift, peeling it back to reveal a polished wooden frame housing a photo. Eggsy gazed down at the photograph; his class of recruits stood before the sweeping back steps of the estate, their dogs on leads beside them, all of them standing at parade rest. Harry watched his thumb pass over the recruits who had washed out, lingering on his tormentors, Rufus and Digby – and finally, Charlie Hesketh.

“This is the last gift, from a mentor to his charge,” Harry said, watching Eggsy’s eyes rove over the photo. “When a Knight has a final evening to impart wisdom to his recruit, it is a last, desperate hope that his teachings have not gone unheeded, that there is something in his words his recruit will take to heart and use to push through, to the end of the trial. When a recruit passes the trial, their bespoke is a gift, paid for by the mentor to impart the first layer of armor a recruit will ever wear. When their recruit finishes their first full mission, the photograph is a gift – a last gift, to remind them of how far they’ve come, from fresh-faced young men…and women, now, to Knights. Kingsman agents. It means that I’ve nothing left to teach you.”

Eggsy blinked, his gaze snapping to Harry. “That’s not true!”

“But it is,” Harry said with a smile. “I’m afraid I’m rather late on the last bit, in fact. Your first full mission was Kentucky and beyond. I wish I could have been there to see it. Admittedly, your situation is unique, as your colleague Roxanne remains such as Lancelot, and you took my place. You ended up facing off against Charlie not once, but twice. But then, there is a lot that is unique about you, not just your circumstances.”

Eggsy’s face was twisting, the way it did when the young man felt great emotion. Grief washed over his face as much as he tried to hold it back, and Harry suddenly had the peculiar sensation that he’d mis-stepped, even as he was doing the proper thing.

“It’s not as if you’re dying, Harry,” Eggsy said, thrusting the photo at him. “You’ve got plenty left to teach me.”

Harry pushed the photo more firmly into Eggsy’s hands. “I do, but not as my student. You’re a Kingsman in your own right, and so you should be treated as such. I’m not going anywhere, Eggsy.”

“It feels almost like you’re trying to leave,” he said. Eggsy slumped a little back down into the chair.

“I assure you, I’m not,” Harry said. “I intend to live a good long time, to spite Chester King.”

Eggsy barked a startled laugh, but he still stared down at the photo in his hands.

“You don’t like it,” Harry inferred.

“No, I do, I just—” Eggsy inhaled, cutting his eyes to Harry as though to judge the impact of his words. “We just got you back.”

Harry nodded, slowly. “At times, I don’t _feel_ back. I lose my way in memories that I can’t be sure happened. I am still the same Harry Hart, but my time at Statesman has indeed made an impact. It’s…perhaps best that I move into the Arthur position, where I am out of the field unless necessary.”

“You never said,” Eggsy said softly.

“There was no reason to worry you,” Harry said. “Ginger has assured me that the nanites are working as intended, and slowly, more and more returns to me. But it will be a while before I should attempt something such as Cambodia again. Certainly, I can leave it up to my successor until then?”

Eggsy looked down at the photo frame once more. “So long as this doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“Not at all,” Harry said. “What did I tell you when you married Tilde? This isn’t the end, we’re barely just getting started. Look around you. We’ve so much left to do, I can’t leave it in a shambles like this.”

Eggsy grinned. “You mean Merlin won’t let you leave it in a shambles like this.”

Harry chuckled. “Perhaps. Now, shall we get downstairs and see whether or not James has done up that eggnog?”

“So long as I can swap it for something non-alcoholic later,” Eggsy said, rising. “James puts too much booze in there for more than a cup at most.”

“I’m pretty sure there was a rumor going around that at one point, James had replaced his blood with good brandy,” Harry replied, only half seriously.

Eggsy gave a short laugh as he tucked the paper wrappings into the wastebasket by the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs, I should find a place for this.”

“As you wish,” Harry said, rising as well.

* * *

The holiday party was getting into full swing, with the handful of staff that had elected to remain working behind the scenes to provide food and drink to the Knights and the small pool of recruits already gathered. The common room had been outfitted with tables, and everyone grazed on what they pleased and chatted while soft holiday music played.

It was a quiet gathering of people Harry was close to, and that was enough. Far larger than his usual holiday getaways, somehow it seemed right to christen their new space with a family gathering. For that was what it was, Harry realized as he strode downstairs to join them. His family, hanging on with bloodied fingers to a world that punished all that was soft in men and women who were like them.

Knights had no family. They lived and died in service to Kingsman.

Harry Hart had done both; now it was time to change the rules.

When Harry made his appearance, it was with little fanfare. He found that now, as Arthur, he preferred it. He slipped in the door, moving quietly to Merlin’s side. The prosthetics hummed as Merlin turned, just in time to accept the glass of champagne Harry tucked into his fingers. If his fingers lingered, well, Merlin was going to be his husband. Certainly, he could take that much liberty in the public eye.

“Ah, late again, sir,” Merlin said, though there was no irritation there, only fondness.

Harry merely smiled, his hand moving to the small of Merlin’s back, resting there as naturally as he breathed.

“I was presenting Eggsy with his final gift, from his mentor.”

“Oh?” Merlin sipped at his glass, his hazel eyes sharp over the rim of the flute. “How did he take it?”

“About as well as you are implying,” Harry said, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “But he seemed better about it when he realized that I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“The boy has the right of it,” Merlin said, as they wandered through the room, heading for seats by the fire. “None of us want you gone again, not so soon.”

“I know,” Harry said. As they neared the fire, they found two of the armchairs had been left for them, side by side, and they sank into them. After a moment, he took Merlin’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

Merlin’s eyes cut about to the gathered group of people, but if anyone noticed, no one made mention of it. He seemed to come back to himself, remembering that it was allowed now, that they set the rules when Harry took up the bloodied crown. He relaxed, marginally, in his chair, the tense line of his shoulders softening as he leaned back in his chair.

“It does take getting used to, doesn’t it?” Harry said.

Merlin gave a nod, setting his empty champagne flute to the side. “It does, yes. Not two years ago, we’d have both been dismissed.”

“At best,” Harry agreed. “But I see no harm in it now. This is a family gathering, after all.”

Merlin blinked, considering the chattering group of people surrounding them. “I suppose that’s the case, aye.”

A rather tame Christmas, by comparison. Harry found, however, that he preferred it. It was exactly what he needed – and by that measure, something he hadn’t realized he wanted. Home and hearth had never been a calling for him in his youth, but with his fiancé beside him and his family around him, he seemed to have gathered them to him without his knowledge.

Harry closed his eye for a moment, soaking in the warmth of the fire and the people around him.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Merlin said. Harry could feel Merlin take his hand once more, and they sat there, linked before the fire, the logs snapping merrily.

“Happy Christmas, Merlin,” he replied, letting a small smile play about the corners of his mouth.

For now, safe behind Kingsman’s walls, it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to have to end this endeavor here. I knew I was coming to the end when I spent eight or nine days futzing about with this and not actually getting anywhere. There's just not enough in me to do the whole 31 days. Perhaps this next Christmas will see something a little better out of me, and in a bit more timely manner. For now, though, I'm considering this work complete.
> 
> I hope, however, that this brought you a little Christmas cheer, and that you and yours have many happy Christmases in the future.
> 
> Consider leaving a comment on the next fic you read, and point out something that you loved to its author. That would be enough of a gift for me, I think. Make it a habit, and you'll have far more fic to read than without.
> 
> Merry Christmas, Constant Readers.


End file.
